


The Wolf and the Squirrel

by Bloodymoonwolf



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Canon-Typical Violence, Deepthroating, Explicit Sexual Content, Leashes, Light Bondage, M/M, Romance, Spit Kink, The Witcher 2: Assassins of Kings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-15 01:14:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 25,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28555206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bloodymoonwolf/pseuds/Bloodymoonwolf
Summary: When Iorveth manages to capture an injured Geralt, he thinks only of using the witcher as a means to an end. But when unbidden attraction sparks between them, allegiances shift, and the line between prisoner and lover blurrs with every passing day.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Iorveth
Comments: 17
Kudos: 51





	1. The weight of kindness

It was one thing to be ambushed, Geralt decided. It had not been the first time in his life and it was not going to be the last. But to be ambushed after covering for Malena and thinking a reward was coming his way—that was quite another matter.

Spitting blood into the already red water, Geralt pulled himself upright and hobbled through the dense underbrush deeper into Flotsam’s southern forest, away from the corpses. He did not like shedding elder blood and his victory left him feeling hollow. In addition, he’d taken a lucky hit to the thigh. His trousers were soaked with blood and his heart beat uncomfortably fast in his chest, a side-effect from the Swallow he’d downed in a rush during the fight.

It was not only his leg that had taken damage. He felt light-headed, the forest swirling in patches of green and brown before his eyes. The way back to Flotsam proper should have been easy, yet he suddenly found himself in a part of the forest that seemed utterly unfamiliar to him.

The trees grew bigger here and the birds chirped louder, as if they had no care in the world. The nekker’s telltale burrows were absent. A safe place within these cursed woods?

Unlikely.

No nekkers meant a vastly more dangerous predator, one that had no interest in tiny creatures like birds or squirrels, and as Geralt struggled onward, he focused on every little sound around him. Death was always ever one misstep away and—

The soft earth beneath his foot gave way and with a shout, Geralt fell forward, tumbling down a few meters into a depression in the forest floor. Aching all over and groaning, Geralt got back up, something crunching beneath his foot. He looked down and spotted what looked suspiciously like a thin, yellowish bone.

 _Nekker remains_ , his witcher training whispered. Which meant he had been right. There was a predator in these parts that even the necrophages feared; and he had stumbled right onto its feeding ground.

A snarling growl came from behind him. Geralt whirled around, silver sword held out before him, pain in his leg forgotten. The monster, an armored arachas, looked like a mixture between a giant spider and a very prickly snail, its shell twisting in spiky swirls. It clacked its foreclaws and charged towards him with incredible speed.

“Fuck.”

Geralt just so managed to evade the hit, rolling aside with a desperate jump and coming right back up, his leg throbbing. Adrenaline rushed his system. An arachas was a worthy opponent, though none he’d be particularly concerned about if he weren’t so weakened. Damn Malena’s elves and their trap.

The arachas turned around in a somewhat ungainly fashion, clacking its jaws and coming towards him again, the great shell on its back bobbing left and right with every movement. Geralt lifted his sword, distributing his weight to account for his injury. With a screech, the crabspider ran at him, rearing up to strike. Geralt dashed forward, using his momentum to stab the monster into its soft underbelly. The arachas screamed and hit him from the side with its claw, lifting him clear off the ground and smashing him into one of the raised earth walls. Geralt’s breath got knocked out of him and pain exploded along his back and right arm. He gasped for air. The crapspider staggered, legs giving out beneath it. Sensing the creature’s weakness, Geralt grabbed one of his silver daggers, took aim and struck the monster right in the eye.

It screeched, thrashing blindly and charging towards him, gait uneven but still fast.

Geralt snapped his fingers and the Quen-shield burst to life around him. It snapped when the claw came at his face, but deflected the blow enough to give him room for another slash of his sword. With a final cry, the arachas collapsed before him, orange blood seeping from the ruined abdomen and soaking the ground. The stench of the creature curdled Geralt’s stomach, but he just pulled his silver dagger from the squelching eye and cleaned it on his trousers, leaving a stripe of orange-streaked slime.

This was not his day.

The sound of slow clapping pulled him from his thoughts and he whirled around, only to almost collapse. His leg burned like fire and wouldn’t support him, his back ached and his head was spinning, harder than before. He barely managed to recognize the green-clad figure in front of him, but as it came closer, he did.

It was hard not to. Iorveth had left quite an impression after all.

He stared at the Scoia’tael leader as the elf came closer, still clapping in mock appreciation of his fighting skills. The giant bow was slung over his back, a sword hanging from his belt. The red bandanna covered his head and right eye, the edge of a twisted scar just visible where the cloth stopped.

“The great Gwynbleidd” he drawled. “Done in by a simple arachas. I must admit, I expected more.”

Geralt clenched his teeth, trying hard not to faint. Iorveth was ruthless and bold and probably quite a bid mad. He couldn’t afford to show weakness to Letho’s helper, yet he felt his consciousness slipping farther and farther away. “What do you want?” he rasped, drawing himself up a bit straighter and instantly regretting it as pain shot through his body.

Iorveth didn’t answer. Instead he drew his sword and held it right against Geralt’s throat, who was still pressed against the earth wall for support. He swallowed, his adam’s apple bobbing against the sharp blade. “How easy it would be to kill you. Tell me, did you enjoy killing my brethren by the waterfall?”

“Malena led me into a trap. I didn’t want to fight them.”

“And yet you did.” The tip of the blade pressed deeper, drawing blood. Suddenly, it receded. “You are lucky that I have other plans for you, Vatt’ghern. Take him!”

Almost soundlessly, a group of Scoia’tael appeared between the trees, grabbing Geralt’s arms and relieving him of his weapons. Geralt struggled against their grasp, hissing when they pulled him upright, but he was too weak. When he tried to form the Axii sign with his hand, Iorveth was right there, grabbing his hair and pulling his head back until Geralt saw stars. “Don’t even think about it, Gwynbleidd. There is only one reason I am letting you live, and it is not so important that I cannot change my mind. So do not test me.”

With that, he let go and turned around, vanishing between the trees. His elves pulled Geralt along, four of them flanking their group on the sides, arrows trained on Geralt’s heart. Realizing that there was nothing more he could do in his current state, Geralt stopped fighting to stay awake and let the world grow dark around him.

* * *

Iorveth stared at the unconscious Witcher that was currently being divested of his clothing. He lay next to the giant oak tree, two Scoia’tael working on him while two others stood by with notched arrows. He knew better than to underestimate this particular man and knew too that he was taking a very big risk by bringing him here. One wrong move, one second of lackluster supervision and Geralt might just destroy his whole unit. He may have been weakened and injured, but Witchers were resilient creatures and he had heard rumors about their regenerative abilities. True or not, it was best to assume that Geralt was the strongest prisoner he’d ever held captive and he was not going to let him go berserk in the middle of their camp.

“I apologize, Iorveth” Malena said from behind him. He turned around to the elven woman. Her fiery red hair was tied back with a green cloth and her mouth was drawn in a thin line. She stared at Geralt with barely concealed hatred, but her words sounded sincere. “I should have been glad for his lies and let the matter drop. Now we are four less.”

“Who did you send?” Iorveth asked. He agreed with Malena, she should never have set a trap like this without speaking to him first, but she knew that and it was done now. No need to waste time.

“Il’ad, Erind, Nemeri and Corin.”

“Have their bodies be collected and buried at our usual spot.” She nodded once and started to leave. “And Malena?” She turned, looking at him with dread in her eyes. What punishment did she expect? “Any idea why he covered for you?”

At this, she shrugged. “Does it matter?”

“I guess not.” She nodded and left.

Almost soundlessly, someone stepped up behind him. “Is this really a good idea?”

Iorveth sighed, turning around fully. Ele’yas was looking past him at Geralt, face twisted in a sneer. The elf had taken over the position of his second in command after Ciaran’s death and was a valuable fighter and decent leader. But what Iorveth valued most of all was his unapologetic way of speaking his mind. It made for refreshing arguments and kept everyone in check, Iorveth included.

“We will see” Iorveth said and went back to watching Geralt, who was now lying only in his linen trousers on the forest floor. Their healer, Kaem, was applying a poultice to his leg. The wound looked deep and ugly, and Iorveth knew for certain that it didn’t stem from the arachas.

Ele’yas clenched his fists. “They did not go down without a fight” he said. “Let’s hope your gamble pays off so they did not die in vain.” With that, he vanished again. Iorveth let his gaze roam over the camp. Their numbers kept shrinking. At this rate, there would be no unit left for him to defend Aedirn with.

Luckily, the solution to his problems had stumbled right into his arms. If Geralt could be trusted. _And_ if the Witcher didn’t get them all killed in the meantime.

* * *

When Geralt awoke, the first thing he noticed was the music. A nostalgic melody, the notes darting up and down swiftly. He tried to sit up, but found himself pulled back; ropes were fastened to his ankles and wrists, bound on all corners to thick tree roots. Gentle afternoon light fell through the dense canopy high above him. He must have been unconscious for hours.

He craned his neck, but his weapons—and clothes for that matter—were nowhere in sight. Instead he spotted Iorveth, who sat on a big rock close by, playing his flute. When the elf noticed Geralt’s stare, he finished the little tune and lowered the wooden instrument. “Did you sleep well?” he asked with a mocking smile.

Geralt pulled hard on the ropes, but they held fast, and the dizziness immediately returned. Frustrated, he grunted and let his head fall back down. Lying like this, he could not see Iorveth, but maybe that was for the better. Just as he thought that, the elf came around into his view, dropping down on his haunches next to him, just far enough away that Geralt knew he wouldn’t reach him even if he managed to rip one of his arms free. “Splendidly” he finally answered the elf’s question.

“I am glad. I wouldn’t want the murderer of my friends to have an uneasy nap.”

“You had the chance to kill me” Geralt answered snidely. “Might have wanted to take that.”

A corner of Iorveth’s mouth twitched, if in amusement or annoyance, Geralt wasn’t sure. From this close, he could see the tired look around the elf’s eyes, the hard lines of his face. Geralt rarely saw elves from this close, and when he did, it was usually to realize how symmetrical their features were, how finely carved the cheek-bones and piercing their gaze. They were beautiful creatures. Not so Iorveth. There was a hardness to him, all edges and corners and shadows that marred his face structure. It turned him into something else. Something older. Darker. But no less striking.

“Go on” Iorveth said, pulling him from his thoughts. “Ask where I got it.”

Geralt’s gaze flitted to the scar. “Why would I care?”

“You’ve been staring for a minute. But let’s skip these pleasantries. I have questions.”

Geralt snorted. “So ask.”

“What are you doing in Flotsam?”

“Hunting that big friend of yours, as you are well aware” Geralt shot back. “All of Temeria thinks I am Foltest’s killer, and I don’t want to have a target on my back for the rest of my life.”

Iorveth nodded absentmindedly. “And your relationship with Loredo?”

“I’m trying to stay clear of the bastard.”

“Wise choice. Though I am not certain I believe that.”

“Believe what you want.” The elf looked him up and down, saying nothing. “What do you really want to know?” Geralt finally asked when the silence stretched too long. “You didn’t kidnap me for information you already have.”

For a second, he thought Iorveth wouldn’t answer. But then the elf cocked his head to the side. “Why did you cover for Malena?”

“What does it matter to you?”

“It matters because your life depends on the answer, so I’d think carefully if I were you.”

Geralt tested his restrains, but he was still too weak to break them. Still, he couldn’t help but rear up a little in challenge. “These will not hold me forever.”

“I have other ways to hold you down, Gwynbleidd, fear not. Now _answer_.”

“The non-humans in Flotsam are treated like shit. The fact that your little unit terrorizes the populace doesn’t help. I didn’t want the situation to escalate.”

“So you’d rather let the Scoia’tael terrorize in silence than to stop them?”

“If it means protecting the innocent in the village.”

Iorveth laughed dryly. “The _innocent_. Brainwashed to think like humans, to submit to humiliation and segregation like cattle. They are weak.”

Geralt’s eyes narrowed. “All the more reason to protect them.”

“For a price, of course, or have you suddenly stopped charging money for your services?”

Geralt grit his teeth, but before he could find a retort, Iorveth stood up and walked away.

“Bastard” he muttered and plopped back onto the hard ground. What did the elf _want_ from him?

* * *

Iorveth didn’t return to Geralt’s erstwhile prison, but he never strayed too far, keeping his one good eye on the Witcher. So the famous White Wolf had turned protector of the innocent. This was not what he had expected, yet it seemed oddly fitting now that he thought about it. Hadn’t Geralt also supported Yaevinn’s revolution in Wyzima? Another alliance he had not thought possible, but there it was. Still, he wasn’t naïve enough to think that Geralt would simply help them if he asked nicely, or that he wouldn’t try to escape as soon as his strength returned.

When Kaem approached him some time later, he asked the healer how quickly Geralt would recover.

“It is hard to say” the elven woman said. She was young for their kind, only just over fifty years, but their experienced healer Gherin had died a few weeks ago during a mission and so Kaem had taken over, woefully unprepared but eager. It was the best Iorveth could hope for, given the circumstances. “He has a concussion, a cracked rib and his leg was cut to the bone, but the wound is already closing. His regenerative abilities are amazing. It might take a few days, but then he’ll be back to full strength.”

“What about his potions? Was there anything of interest to us?”

She shook her head, braided hair falling into her face. “We might as well drink poison. Without his resistances, it does more harm than good.”

Iorveth nodded. That was disappointing, but hardly a surprise. “Get some rest. I’ll take your watch.”

He sat back down on his rock and stared over to the oak. Geralt was sleeping again, or at least not moving. To pass the time, Iorveth began sharpening his sword, never taking his eye off Geralt. The man’s muscular chest rose and fell slowly, a barely detectable movement.

His hands busy for the moment, Iorveth let his mind wander. The Witcher was not the only one who had been staring during their conversation. Iorveth remembered the heavily scarred skin, the shapes and sizes telling him more about the kinds of creatures Geralt regularly dealt with than he was comfortable with. Though this was of course precisely why Geralt was still alive.

He had also noticed how dirty the Witcher was. It made sense, he assumed, since Geralt had gone straight from a dungeon to Flotsam’s marshy forests and into two consecutive battles. It shouldn’t annoy him as much as it did. Neither should Geralt’s piercing gaze affect him as it had during their conversation. He did not like the direction his thoughts went when he looked at those piercing, yellow eyes. Willing himself to let go of the memory, he focused on his weapon.

If things progressed as they should, he would soon need it.

* * *

“You want me to take a _bath_?” Geralt asked, incredulous.

“I will not have you stinking up my camp” Iorveth retorted. “A dead necker smells fresher than you do.”

Geralt grinned, lifting his hands from the ground. “These will have to go.”

Iorveth nodded, a small smiling playing around his lips. “Indeed.”

Geralt soon found out why that prospect amused the elf. While two Scoia’tael held him at sword’s edge, two others cut the rope from the roots, only to tie Geralt’s arms tightly behind his back so that his hands rested against his elbows. Next, they bound sacks of stones to his ankles, hindering his movement. And finally, Iorveth put a leash around his neck, tying a knot that pulled tight the moment Geralt stretched the rope too far. Under the watch of two archers with bows at the ready, Iorveth led him through the forest to the waterfall where Geralt had killed the four Scoia’tael only yesterday.

He wasn’t sure what he had expected, but the corpses were gone and the water clean. No sign of blood or battle anywhere. When Geralt stood at the edge of the little lake, Iorveth gave a silent command that had both archers vanishing into the trees. “They will watch from above” the elf informed him, pulling on the rope around his neck until Geralt followed the elf into the water. It was ice-cold, but it soothed the lingering pain in his leg. Maybe Iorveth was right and this was a good idea.

With less resistance than before, Geralt waded deeper into the clear water, the rushing waterfall roaring in his ears. When he was hip-deep, Iorveth stopped pulling and sat down on a stone that jutted from the water, leaning back on his elbows. Geralt quickly glanced towards him to judge whether he could rip the rope form Iorveth’s hands, but the elf had tied it tightly around his arm, and there was the matter of the archers to consider. Geralt couldn’t hear their breathing, but then he barely heard Iorveth’s, the waterfall loud enough to drown out all but the loudest sounds.

Finally resigning himself to his fate, he went down to his knees so that the water covered him up to his neck and dunked his head under. When he got back up, he spat out water and shook the wet hair from his face. His gaze fell to Iorveth, who watched him quite intently. Gerald cocked his head. “Like what you see?” he drawled, just to annoy his captor. When Iorveth went stiff for a second though, he hesitated. That was unexpected. Had he actually been staring? Or just been deep in thought?

“I’d like the sight more if you kept your mouth shut” Iorveth finally said, the comeback too late to be convincing. Wondering how far he could push this, Geralt stood up and walked towards Iorveth.

The elf watched him lazily, but Geralt noticed the tightness around his eyes and in his hands. He tried to look carefree, but Geralt knew he was readying himself for an attack. So Geralt just came closer, until he stood right in front of Iorveth, watching, waiting.

Their gazes locked, and suddenly neither could look away. The sharpness in Iorveth’s face, the lack of beauty or symmetry … it did something to Geralt he couldn’t quite explain. Until heat squirmed its way down his belly and straight into his cock.

Shocked, Geralt tore his gaze away, turning around and dunking his head again as if he had tired of their silent battle, but he noticed the shaky exhale coming from behind him, just loud enough that the waterfall didn’t obscure the sound.

Relief shot through him. At least, whatever irrational attraction he had just felt, he had not been the only one affected.

* * *

Unseen by Geralt, who had his bare back towards him, Iorveth pinched the bridge of his nose, remembering the way the wet linen trousers had clung to the Witcher’s groin and legs, and cursed himself a fool.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Appendix: Translation of Elderspeech
> 
> Vatt’ghern: Witcher  
> Gwynbleidd: White wolf (title of the elves for Geralt)


	2. Dare to trust

Upon their return, Geralt finally found time to study the Scoia’tael camp. He took in the sight of the rugged looking elves, huddled around baskets filled with berries and mushrooms, cleaning roots and wild herbs in bowls of fresh water. They were quiet, any conversation that took place hushed and careful, as if they feared to make any noise. Geralt wondered how many Scoia’tael were under Iorveth’s command, for surely it had to be more than the two dozen currently present.

“Where is the rest of your unit?” he asked.

“If you want to spy, do it with more subtlety, Gwynbleidd.”

Iorveth led him past the giant oak at the center of the camp and towards what looked like a big bush of wild roses hanging down the stone wall that served as the natural western boarder of the hideout. Instead of stopping in front of it, Iorveth shoved him forward and right through the thicket.

As it turned out, it was merely camouflage for what lay behind, a cave that wormed its way deep into the stone, the opening low enough that they had to duck to enter.

Soon the cavern widened, allowing both men to stand up straight, Geralt’s hair just brushing the cool ceiling. At first, he thought the cave was empty, but the further they went inside, the easier it was to see, until they stood beneath a small opening, big enough to let in natural light, but probably all but invisible from the outside. On all sides, thick roots burrowed their way through soil and stone into the ground.

A tug at his neck had him stumbling forward again. Framed by the circle of dim light, Geralt detected a pallet made from dried and woven grass, a jug of water, and a small cloth sack near the wall.

“Am I to share your bed?” he taunted.

“Don’t be greedy” Iorveth snarled, abruptly pulling the leash down until they were almost nose to nose and he felt Iorveth’s dagger dig into his bruised ribs. “Sit.”

Geralt stared Iorveth down, but the elf didn’t even twitch and the dagger was still pointing between his ribs towards his heart, so he sat down. Iorveth immediately went to work with more ropes, binding Geralt’s already bound arms to a sturdy root and doing the same for his ankles.

A soft voice sounded from outside. Iorveth tugged once more on Geralt’s ties to make sure the knots were secure, then he left the cave. Geralt strained to hear what Iorveth said to the person outside, but the snippets of conversation he could understand were in whispered Elderspeech and while he spoke a little of the elven language, it was apparently not enough.

Shortly after, Iorveth returned, a bowl with a thin looking soup in his hand. “You should be thankful my healer reminded me to keep your strength up so you may recover” he said, sitting down opposite of Geralt.

“I’ll need my hands free” Geralt ground out, struggling against the restraints, just to rattle Iorveth, but the elf didn’t even twitch. Instead, he held the bowl to Geralt’s lips.

“Drink.”

“I will not be fed like a babe.”

“You will drink it like this, or I will pry open your mouth and pour it down your throat. Choose.”

Geralt stared Iorveth down, almost ready to call his bluff, but in the end decided not to risk it. Reluctantly, he leaned forward, opening his mouth. Iorveth brought the lip of the bowl forward, tipping it slowly to give Geralt time to swallow.

The taste was vile, watery and bitter and kind of swampy, but Iorveth kept the bowl where it was, so Geralt drank until nothing but a few drops remained in the wooden dish.

“How long until you tell me what you want from me?” Geralt asked when Iorveth sat back. “Or am I to stay your prisoner until Loredo flushes you out?”

“Patience, Gwynbleidd.”

Geralt snarled, straining again, but Iorveth stood up, unimpressed. “I have matters to attend to. Try not to do anything stupid, hard as it may be.” Without giving him a chance to reply, the elf left.

Geralt stared after him, and once he was certain his captor wasn’t coming back, he curled his fingers, trying and failing to loosen the knot. Still, this position wasn’t too bad. And Iorveth had left him alone for the moment.

With barely a movement, Geralt cast Igni. Flames licked up his fingers, the fire slowly moving along whatever piece of rope he could reach. Iorveth was careful, he would give him that. But not nearly careful enough.

* * *

Later that night, Iorveth returned. He was exhausted. The messenger he had sent to that witch Anezka had returned, Kaem had informed him of all the medicine they’d run out of and five different Scoia’tael had asked him what he was thinking, keeping the murderer of their brethren alive and captive instead of killing him while he was still weak, Ele’yas most fervently.

They made fair points of course, but Iorveth still hesitated. Geralt was strong, a weapon. And if he managed to control him, to wield him, even just to nudge him in the right direction, he might be the difference between accomplishing their goals, and slowly dying in this forest.

He wasn’t ready to tell Geralt yet though. The Witcher’s motivations were still elusive and hard to predict and he couldn’t risk giving Geralt too much information before being certain the other would agree to his plans. Of course, he told none of this to his unit. They trusted him and would obey his orders, even if they didn’t understand them yet. Iorveth was the reason they existed, that they had found a new purpose. After Isengrim's sudden departure, Iorveth had been stranded, unsure what to do. But he had found the Scoia'tael, had brought them together, forged the solitary and broken fighters back into a guerilla unit. He was their leader. No matter how much they may protest and grumble, in the end, they would follow him.

When he finally returned to the cave, Geralt was asleep. How the Witcher managed that while being trussed up like a bird was a mystery, but it calmed him a bit. Ever since the waterfall incident he had trouble keeping his mind focused when looking at Geralt. Something had awakened inside of him since taking the other man captive, and it was a feeling he had long ago buried and not indulged in for what seemed decades. Now though, he allowed himself a moment of weakness, watching Geralt breathe slowly, his eyelids fluttering, the lips slightly parted, the white hair framing his stark features.

His gaze travelled lower, down the equally white smatterings of chest hair that vanished beneath his belly button and the white trousers that were thankfully no longer transparent.

Deciding that Geralt was fast asleep and that he himself might need some rest as well, he lay down on the bedroll and closed his eye.

* * *

The moment Iorveth’s breath evened out, Geralt’s eyes shot open, his meditative state falling off him just like the burned ends of rope he had been holding in his hands this whole time. He quickly divested himself of the bindings on his legs.

The cave was dark, only the muted moonlight streaming in through the narrow gap in the ceiling. Geralt looked around. He had no Cat-potion to drink, but his eyesight was naturally better thanks to his mutations, so he could make out the sleeping form of Iorveth.

The elf lay on his side, still clad in full armor with the sword at his belt, the only concession to comfort the bow that lay in the far corner. His headcloth was still in place. Geralt wondered what kind of scar it hid that Iorveth did not even take it off at night.

 _Maybe he didn’t take it off because of you_ , his mind supplied. Geralt shook his head. He hadn’t asked to be captured and brought back to the camp, or to be tied up in Iorveth’s sleeping quarters. If his presence somehow intruded on Iorveth’s personal boundaries, that was the elf's problem, not his.

While he slowly got up and made his way to the exit, he wondered just what the elf wanted from him. Surely Iorveth knew how risky it was to keep him here. He had just reached the narrow pathway that led out of the cave when a heavy weight tackled him from behind and threw him to the ground.

Grunting, Geralt swung wildly, fist impacting against Iorveth’s shoulder, but the elf didn’t let go and a moment later, Geralt found himself on his back, the elf sitting astride him with a sword tightly pressed against his throat.

Geralt fought the grip, but for some reason, there was no strength behind his movements. Frustrated, he bucked up, almost sending the elf flying, but Iorveth held on and pressed the weapon closer until it broke skin. “Don’t move” Iorveth hissed.

The memory of the weird, bitter taste came back to him. “What did you put in my food?” he demanded. Iorveth smiled slyly.

“A compound we usually reserve for the nekkers to keep them slow and weak before we feed them to the arachas. Due to your resistances, you were given a much higher dose. I see I judged correctly.” He leaned closer, his breath ghosting over Geralt’s face with every word. “I warned you I had other ways to hold you down.”

“Just tell me what you want, elf!” Geralt bucked again, but he felt sluggish and faint.

Iorveth hesitated. Finally, he spoke. “Kill the old man for me.”

Geralt stopped struggling immediately. “Who? Loredo?”

Iorveth laughed, releasing his hold a bit and sitting up straight. “The Kayran, Gwynbleidd. Though I’d not complain should you bring me Loredo’s head as well.”

A shudder went through Geralt. In the light, with half his face covered by dark cloth, Iorveth seemed no more than a shadow, a specter. For nothing in the world could Geralt have explained why this elf sitting atop him, a dagger wet with Geralt’s own blood in his hands, had this effect on him, but he _felt_ it. Heat coursed through him, rising in his cheeks and boiling through his stomach, his slowly hardening cock uncomfortably tight beneath Iorveth’s weight.

Iorveth, ever the vigilant Scoia’tael leader, noticed of course. “My, Geralt” he drawled, actually shifting forward to elicit a small grunt from him. “You flatter me.”

“It’s nothing personal, believe me” Geralt ground out between clenched teeth. He should have been out of here already, by force if necessary, on his way to Flotsam’s inn to enjoy some vodka with his friends. Instead he was stuck in a cave, helpless as a newborn kitten beneath his captor. His lack of freedom was bad enough. But he refused to be humiliated like this. He had heard Iorveth’s shaky breath at the waterfall. He knew that, whatever this cursed attraction between them was, Iorveth felt it just as much.

Before the elven leader could react, Geralt used their new position to flip himself on top of Iorveth, the sword still pressed against his throat. The elf had made a mistake, had underestimated Geralt, pushed him a little too far, and Geralt saw the exact moment that Iorveth realized this.

Still, as much as he enjoyed his little display of power, he was as much in Iorveth’s control as before.

Best to get it over with then. “Why do you want me to kill the Kayran?” he asked.

Iorveth stared up at him, face blank, not even trying to fight back against this new position. “It’s blocking the Pontar” he finally said, voice icy. “No ship can leave the harbor.”

“Are you a spice merchant, to care about ships and their cargo?”

Iorveth didn’t answer his question. Pressing the sword higher, he whispered, “I can still kill you.”

“You can, just like you could have killed me two days ago. The fact that you didn’t means you are desperate, so just tell me why want the harbor open and maybe we can make a deal.”

For a while, Iorveth simply looked at him, obviously wrestling with himself. Finally, he began to speak. “There is a woman in Upper Aedirn whose forces I wish to support in the coming war.”

Geralt drew back a little, doubt creeping into his mind. “A woman leading an army? Who is she?”

“Saskia is a queen in all but name, the only righteous ruler the North has.”

“High praise for a human. Why would you care about her war? Is she your secret human lover?” Iorveth’s free hand shot up, but Geralt caught it before the blow could connect. He pressed it down into the soft ground, using his weight to pin Iorveth down completely. “Did I hit a nerve?”

Iorveth’s eye glinted sharply in a flash of moonlight. “Do not be absurd. She fights alongside our kind. For peace between humans and non-humans. And this very moment, Kaedwen’s forces are surely setting up within her borders. We must reach her in time or she will fall.”

Geralt furrowed his brow. “How? You have no ship, even if the harbor were open you could never …” He trailed off, realization hitting him. There was one ship that belonged to no trader, large and guarded day and night. Zoltan had explained its use with great disgust. “You want to take the prison barge.”

“How clever you are, Witcher. So now decide. Slay the Kayran and be released afterwards, or die tonight.”

Geralt pressed Iorveth down a bit deeper until the elf grunted and dug his sword harder into Geralt already bleeding skin. “I don’t think you realize who is in control right now.”

“You are drugged. Your reflexes are dull and your muscles weak. The moment you leave this cave, a dozen arrows will take you down. There is no way out of this camp but by my orders.”

Geralt stayed silent, turning the situation over in his head. Iorveth was right. He was in no shape to handle two dozen well trained swordfighters with archers in the backline. From tomorrow on, Iorveth would either keep him drugged by force, or secured in such a way that he could not escape again. As annoying as it was, doing Iorveth the favor of killing the Kayran, something he had planned on doing anyway, albeit for money, seemed his best option of getting back to his friends quickly. Still, he’d be damned if he let Iorveth get his help so easily.

“I will make you a deal” Geralt said. “I will kill the Kayran for you. On two conditions.”

Iorveth looked up at him, anger and a glimmer of something else in his eyes. “Name them.”

“You tell me everything about Letho. His motive, who he is working with, where he went, who his next target is. Anything at all that you know.”

“Done” Iorveth agreed. He seemed almost relieved. “And the second condition?”

Geralt’s gaze dropped to Iorveth’s lips, his hips leisurely bucking forward into Iorveth’s groin. A small moan escaped the elf. Satisfied, Geralt continued. “Get this damn tension over with and kiss me already.”

Iorveth’s eyebrow shot up, but the next moment he freed his hand from Geralt’s loosened grasp and pulled his face down towards him, crashing their mouths together with a noise that bordered on desperation and sounded exactly like Geralt felt.

* * *

Iorveth let the sword clatter to the floor, burying both hands in the Witcher's white hair, daring the other to use his distraction as a chance to escape.

But Geralt made no move to get away; if anything, he pushed closer, until their bodies lay flat against each other and Iorveth became heady with the taste of Geralt's tongue in his mouth and their rapidly hardening crotches rubbing against multiple layers of leather and linen.

With a thrust upwards, Iorveth made Geralt gasp into their kiss, pulling back just enough that their eyes met, lips barely not touching.

“Why you?” the Witcher muttered, quietly but loud enough for Iorveth to hear it.

Iorveth couldn’t help but smirk. “Must be my personality after all.”

Geralt gave him a blank stare, but when Iorveth tugged on his hair, he obediently met his mouth again, opening just enough for Iorveth's sharp tongue to sneak inside.

Meanwhile Geralt let his hand wander lower, over his throat and chest to the clasps holding Iorveth's armor in place. Iorveth quickly stopped him from trying to open them with a firm grip. Geralt gave an inquisitive glance upward. “Shy?” he teased.

“If you think I'm letting the prisoner who just tried to escape take off my armor, you are very delusional, Gwynbleidd.”

Annoyed, Geralt stopped. “You trust me enough to show me your secret camp but not your dick?”

“I didn’t cut your throat. How much more trust do you expect from me?”

At that, Geralt actually chuckled, and Iorveth hated the warm feeling the sound evoked inside of him. Irrational passion was one thing. He was not going to let this become anything more. Determined to keep Geralt occupied, he sneaked a hand under Geralt’s body and quickly found the others cock. It was hot and firm to the touch. Geralt gasped when he grabbed the length through the linen trousers and began to slowly stroke him.

Geralt pressed his forehead against Iorveth’s chest, panting. He seemed more shaken than Iorveth had expected, but maybe he was just as overwhelmed by these feelings as he was. Undecided between going even slower to drive Geralt mad with pleasure and speeding up to bring him to his knees, Iorveth recognized the hooting outside only on the second repetition.

“Bloede arse” he cursed, letting go of Geralt and pushing the other off him. Geralt grumbled, then gasped when Iorveth grabbed his sword again and put it right against his jugular. “Back up to the roots over there” Iorveth commanded.

“I’m not in the mood for roleplay” Geralt said, even as he slowly backed up.

“I will tie you back up. You will not struggle. Tomorrow we will find the Kayran’s lair and you will prepare whatever you need to fight it.”

“And tonight, you keep me tied up like this?” Geralt asked, incredulous, gesturing towards his very hard cock outlined by the fabric of his trousers. “That was not the deal!”

“The deal was to kiss you, which I did.”

“Don’t pretend like you don’t want more.”

Iorveth shrugged, tying Geralt back up, this time making sure the witcher had no way of igniting the rope. He should have done so in the beginning. “What I _want_ is unimportant.” The hooting repeated again, more urgently. Iorveth returned the signal. “I have responsibilities. Something _you_ wouldn’t understand, I assume.”

He gave Geralt a final stroke, but the witcher leaned towards him, eyes locked on his lips. It felt as if a string was pulling them together. Iorveth didn’t like it. But neither could he ignore it. He leaned in, accepting Geralt’s sloppy kiss.

Suddenly, a sharp sting made him rip away. Blood trickled down his chin. Carefully, he lifted a hand to his bitten lip. “Come back soon” Geralt said, grinning smugly and licking the blood from his lips.

Shaking his head, Iorveth stood up and finally went outside.

* * *

“What is it?” he asked as soon as he left his cave. As expected, Iorin, his contact for the local spy ring, paced impatiently in front of the entrance, holding a crumpled letter in his hand. Iorveth’s eyes narrowed. “Whose report?”

“Margot” Iorin said. He eyed Iorveth’s bloody lip, but thankfully said nothing.

Iorveth took the letter, furrowing his brow. “It’s not due for another three days.”

“Something big must have happened. She’s not the type to risk her neck.”

Absentmindedly, Iorveth thanked him and went to the oak. There was another cave close by, one that was much bigger and roomier than the place where Geralt was currently tied up, but it served mostly as a shelter from rain for their weapons. Usually, it was home to the arachas, a perfect protection from outsiders, but since Geralt had killed it, he’d have to lure another one here.

_You may not need to, if things progress as planned._

At the oak, he settled down between the roots and opened the letter. His eyes darted quickly over the familiar scrawl. Margot was not a loyalist or an especially moral woman, she simply hated the populace of Flotsam more than the Scoia’tael and happily supplied them with information on who to target during their raids. The last report had given him intel on who collaborated directly with Loredo and who could be trusted not to support him. This one was much shorter.

_That Witcher who arrived some days ago has vanished two days ago, after protecting Malena from some guards. People are already speculating if he works together with you, and Loredo is furious. This is a warning in case Malena did something rash again. You know my opinion about her … her little stunts do your people more harm than good._

_His friends are getting worried as well. One is a sorceress named Triss Merigold. She is not to be underestimated. I think they all have contacts with that Special Forces officer, Roche or some such. I’m sure you know him. Stay low._

_Margot_

Iorveth folded the paper back up, staring at it. He knew about Roche and Triss, of course, but this was still valuable information. If the villagers and Loredo were already linking Geralt with his unit, matters would turn very ugly, very soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Appendix: Translation of Elderspeech
> 
> Gwynbleidd: White wolf (title of the elves for Geralt)  
> Bloede arse: Fucking shit (lit. bloody ass)


	3. No side but my own

Geralt seethed. Iorveth had, against his obvious invitation, stayed away from the cave all night, leaving him behind angry and horny. Instead, two elves had taken position outside to guard the exit. Not managing to sleep, Geralt was stuck reliving the feel of Iorveth against him, their tongues dancing and slender fingers working his cock.

Frustration bubbled up inside of him. He wanted to get this all over with. He needed to return to Flotsam, to Triss and Zoltan and Dandelion, before Loredo added two and two together and became troublesome. Roche was another factor. The Special Forces Agent had freed Geralt on a very specific condition: bring down Letho. While Geralt trusted Iorveth enough to assume the elf wouldn’t break his word, he wasn’t sure Roche trusted _him_ enough to keep his own end of their bargain. Staying away too long would have consequences.

On the other hand, Geralt couldn’t deny that he enjoyed this verbal back and forth with Iorveth. He would enjoy it even more if he was on even footing with the other. Still, if Iorveth was to be believed, they would start their hunt for the Kayran today, a dangerous undertaking, but that was kind of his job description.

Finally, in the late morning hours, Iorveth returned. He grabbed his bow and strung it over his back, then came over.

“Just to be clear, there will be archers following us and they will shoot to kill should you try something” he stated dryly. Geralt noticed the leash Iorveth held loosely in his hands. He lifted an eyebrow. “Do you enjoy leading me around like a dog?”

Iorveth smiled, sharp and dangerous. “Maybe I do.”

Geralt rolled his eyes. “At some point you’ll have to free me. I cannot kill the Kayran with my hands tied behind my back.”

“How disappointing.”

Not managing to stifle his retort, Geralt licked his lips provocatively. "There are other things I might be able to do without my hands, if you're willing."

Iorveth clasped the collar around his neck without a word and untied Geralt from the tree roots. Geralt noticed with delight that a flush had risen in his high cheekbones, at least the visible one. The elf tugged on the leash, forcing Geralt to stagger to his feet. His legs were numb and shaky, but he managed to stand straight. Geralt leaned forward, enjoying that Iorveth was almost exactly his own height. It made looking into the other's eyes so much easier. He leaned forward, just enough that Iorveth unconsciously leaned in as well. Just a bit, just for a second before he jerked back, but it was enough.

Last night had not been a fluke.

Satisfied, Geralt inclined his head. "Lead the way" he said. "I'm just your dog, after all."

"Do not sell yourself short" Iorveth said lightly, tugging the leash and making Geralt follow him. "We do not call you Gwynbleidd for nothing, _White_ _Wolf_."

He was glad Iorveth had his back towards him, so he didn't see the broad grin that stretched across his face.

Outside, Geralt immediately noticed that something was different. There were a lot more Scoia'tael in the camp than the days before, and there was a tension in the air, like the calm before a storm. From above, he could hear the breathing of sentries.

"What's wrong?" he asked Iorveth.

The elf shrugged. "Precautions."

"Against what?"

"Some rumors from the city. Nothing that concerns you. Come, we have a monster to kill."

Geralt immediately stopped walking. "Rumors? What rumors?"

Annoyed, Iorveth turned around to him. "Of you and me, working together."

"And you think this does not concern me? Do you have any idea—"

A shout rang out from above. "Dh'oine esse caem—" The elf didn't get any further. A thudding sound rang through the camp, followed by the rustling of leaves, birds hastily taking flight, and a body impacting on the forest floor with a sickening crunch.

Iorveth had his bow out and arrow notched a second later, quickly rotating on the spot to locate the attacker.

Yells filled the air, a mix of Elder- and Commonspeech. "Get back inside" Iorveth growled.

"Like hell" Geralt shot back. Iorveth spun around to him, his face turning an angry shade of red.

"I do not have time to argue with you, Geralt!"

In that moment, a horde of blue-clad soldiers with striped masks sprang from the thicket and into the clearing, led by none other than Vernon Roche.

"Fuck" Geralt cursed. "What's _he_ doing here?"

Iorveth followed his gaze. "Bloede … Aen me! Aen me! Ymladda dh'oine! Spar'le!" At their leader's command, the Scoia'tael quickly recovered from their shock and grouped up, halting the Blue Stripes in their attack, enough to allow the archers in the trees to shoot down death into the enemies' ranks. Geralt felt adrenaline spiking through his bloodstream. He ripped at the leash, freeing it from Iorveth's loose grip. The elf immediately turned, pointing the arrow at Geralt's throat. "Stay still" he ordered. "Do not even breathe."

"Is this the right time to threaten me?" Geralt demanded, rage rising in his chest. "Free me and I will _help_ you!"

"You think I trust you?"

"You'd better fucking start!" Suddenly, Geralt stilled. He had been so focused on the arrow in his face that he had noticed the nearing danger too late. Roche fought his way through a throng of Scoia'tael, leaving bloody corpses in his path. And right behind him, wielding an axe and nothing, respectively, came Zoltan and Triss.

"Wait!" he screamed, but Triss already had her hands up, a streak of white lightning shooting through the air and hitting Iorveth in the back, knocking him to the ground. The elf groaned, numb fingers digging through the earth, his weapon dropping out of reach. Geralt went down on his knees next to him, but his hands were still bound. He couldn't do anything as Roche and his friends came closer. Zoltan waved a hand in happy recognition. "'Bout bloody time we found ya, Geralt!"

"Don't attack!" Geralt yelled in their direction, then, to the half-unconscious elf next to him, "Get these fucking ropes off!" Roche slowed a little, suspicion marring his features, but then his eyes crinkled in silent understanding. Did he think Geralt was laying a trap?

Iorveth looked up as Roche came closer, sword held eagerly in his hand. Around them, the forest echoed with cries of pain and the clanging of weapons, the whooshing of arrows cutting the air. The elf sat up slowly, his weapons out of reach.

"Let me _go_ , Iorveth" Geralt all but begged.

And finally, Iorveth snatched a dagger from his belt and cut Geralt's ties in two.

* * *

Iorveth felt as if in a dream. He turned, looking back towards the danger. His vision swam with fuzzy images, a nightmare looming above him. Roche, the slayer of so many of his kind, of women and children alike, his arch-nemesis. And he held a sword, while Iorveth held a dagger and could barely see straight. A ringing filled his ears. The sword came down, the blade gleaming in the light of a spreading fire close by—

—and Geralt threw himself in front of him, a translucent shield crackling to life around them and throwing Roche's attack back.

"Not a step closer, Roche" the Witcher said, voice icier than Iorveth had heard it during all of Geralt's imprisonment. "I have a pact, and I will see it through."

"Geralt, what are you talking about?" A woman's voice. Pinned up red hair, long legs. Was this the Sorceress Margot had warned him off? Triss Merigold? Yes, he recognized her now as she stepped closer. She had been with them when Iorveth first met Roche and Geralt in the forest.

"Geralt, what is the meaning of this?" Roche asked, voice low and dangerous. "We have a pact as well. Defending these terrorists is _not_ part of it."

"He will give me information on Letho's whereabouts in exchange for my services."

"He will give us this information when I've had my way with him in a dark and cold room where his screams get swallowed by the walls!" Roche roared, slashing again with his sword. Geralt erected another magical shield, holding Roche at bay. The dwarf, Zoltan, stood to the side, visibly confused, as did the sorceress. Iorveth meanwhile felt his senses returning to him. While around them carnage reigned, he grabbed the sword that had fallen from his grip before and struggled to his feet.

"Why are you defending him?" Triss cried. "He kidnapped you and held you prisoner! I mobilized Roche to help us get you back. Why are you fighting us?"

"Because" Geralt grunted, the strain of the shield clearly visible in the bead of sweat on his face, "I made a deal with him."

"Aye, I say we listen to Geralt" Zoltan said, crossing his arms. "He knows what he wants, I'm not gonna try and talk him out of it. Bloody stupid I'd be to rescue him against his will."

Triss looked at Geralt, and Iorveth watched the emotions play over her face. Confusion, betrayal, bewilderment. Roche's face on the other hand was clear as day to read. Red-hot rage sparked from the special agent’s eyes as he lifted his sword again, as did Iorveth by reflex, then sprang forward to attack.

White lightning shot forward, hitting Roche in the back and dropping him with a thud like a felled tree. Triss breathed heavily as she lowered her arms. "You better not make me regret this, Geralt."

Iorveth still heard a ringing in his ears and he was wobbly on his legs, but he didn't care. This was his chance. He stepped up, lifting his sword for the killing blow, his mind's eye seeing all the brothers and sisters he had lost to Roche and his unit, to these bastards that had hunted them, never given them a moment of respite.

Geralt immediately spun around, grabbing Iorveth's arm and stopping him from moving even an inch. Iorveth bristled, but when Geralt stepped in, shielding him from the view of his two friends and leaning so close that Iorveth could smell the sweat and dust and wild scent on his skin, he couldn't help but soak it in, effectively letting Geralt stop him with nothing but his presence.

"Whose side are you on, Gwynbleidd?" he asked, voice husky with want and need. Geralt seemed no better off, pupils blown wide.

"My own" Geralt growled. "And right now yours if you manage not to kill anyone for the next five minutes."

"You ask a lot" Iorveth hissed, pointing at the corpses of his fighters. The battle was still raging and he needed to stop lusting after a man he had no business to find so attractive and get out there already. "He has ambushed my camp, killed my people, hunted my kind for years, and you want me to spare him?"

"I want you to stop and think! You'll be out in a few days anyway. We kill the Kayran, we steal the barge and you can sail to your warrior queen. Don't throw away the lives of the non-humans in this town."

Iorveth filed the _We_ away for later. Surely Geralt had misspoken. Helping him take over the barge had never been part of their deal. "They do not care about me or mine. Why should I care about them?"

Geralt's gaze pierced him. He felt a chill run down his neck and spine. "Because they have no one to protect them but you. Like it or not, what you do reflects back on them. Get to Aedirn. Let these people find some peace if they can."

_Peace._

Had Geralt known that this was the word that would strike true? That it would tear Iorveth's heart asunder? That he wanted nothing more than some peace for his kind?

Iorveth ripped himself from Geralt's grip, but he did put his sword away. He noticed now that while he and Geralt had been arguing, Triss had cast some type of sleeping spell on everyone. Bluestripes and Scoia'tael lay side by side on the blood-soaked ground, dozing. The sorceress’ nose was bloody and the dwarf kept her upright.

"I'm sorry, Geralt" she muttered, voice lilting. "I didn't know … I thought you needed help …"

"It's fine." Geralt went to her, brushing a strand of hair from her sweaty face, and Iorveth felt a roiling envy squirming through his insides, making him wish that Geralt would brush his hair back like that, just once, in a moment of unguardedness.

Immediately, he shoved the shameful thought aside. He could accept lust.

He would not accept more.

* * *

It took a while, but Zoltan, Geralt and Iorveth finally pulled the last Scoia'tael to safety. The still living Bluestripes had been carried into the forest, far enough from the camp that they would not find their way back immediately, but the work was hard and the sun hung low by the time they were done. While Zoltan somehow managed to pull Iorveth into a conversation, Triss took Geralt aside so they could speak in private.

"Are you aware of his inclinations towards you?"

Geralt crossed his arms. "What makes you say that?"

"Geralt, please. The way he looks at you isn't exactly subtle."

He huffed a laugh, remembering the fierce desire that burned too brightly when looking at the elven leader, how Iorveth's body felt pressed against him, shaky breath in his ear. "I am, yes."

Triss must have caught something in his expression, because she suddenly leaned forward. "Geralt, are you— is this going two ways? Are you returning his affections?"

"I wouldn't call it _affections_ " Geralt said, grimacing.

"What would you call it then?"

He opened his mouth, but in the end, didn't reply. Triss raised a knowing eyebrow.

"I am not going to intrude on this unnamed _something_ that you two have, but please be careful, Geralt. What you did here today … word will spread. I'm not sure how Roche will react when he wakes up. I'll do my best to keep things under control, but it might get ugly."

Geralt nodded. He knew how Roche would view today. Utmost betrayal. He was lucky if the Special Forces Commander didn't immediately come after him again.

"I just hope it's worth the trouble" Triss sighed, rubbing her forehead. She looked tired, Geralt decided. Had she been sleeping badly, knowing he was taken by the Scoia'tael? "I mean, if Iorveth knows Letho's whereabouts, why can't he tell you right now?"

"He has something that he wants. Desperately. And I am the only one that can give it to him."

Triss made a choking sound. "Are we talking about your dick, or …"

Shit, he had run right into that one, hadn't he? "Killing the Kayran" Geralt clarified.

"The Kayran?!" Triss turned away in exasperation. "That huge magical sea monster in the harbor? Is that the one you want to kill for him?"

"I would have killed it anyway" Geralt explained. "Síle and I had a contract in town." A contract that could still earn him some money. He was pretty sure the merchants didn't care for whom he brought the creature down.

"Well, if you insist" Triss finally said, when Geralt didn't wither under her stare. “I will try to mitigate the damage you did to your reputation. Loredo will be a problem though.”

"Were you not an advisor to a king?" he asked, smiling. "I'm sure you can handle it."

"Tsk" was all the sound Triss made, but Geralt knew her well. He could recognize a pleased flush when he saw one. "We better get going" she said. "The Scoia'tael should move camp, just to be safe."

"I'll tell Iorveth."

Triss nodded, and started to leave. Suddenly though, she stopped and turned back. "Is this serious, between the two of you?" There was a sheen over her eyes, not quite tears yet, but something close. Geralt's heart constricted. This was not the way he wanted this conversation to go.

"It's nothing like that."

"Mh-hm …"

"I mean it Triss! It's not going to last."

Satisfied, Triss folded her arms, leaning back. "Well, either way, don't get yourself killed" she teased.

Geralt grinned. "Sure. Just keep Loredo off my back in the meantime. This will all be over in a few days."

"Good" Triss said, looking into the thick canopy of trees in the direction of Flotsam, hidden behind the deadly forest. "I cannot wait to leave this wretched place."

* * *

Iorveth wiped the sweat from his brow and threw down his bow and sword in the cave, before he let himself collapse on his sleeping mat.

First the attack, getting hit by magical lightning, then carrying all those bodies around and finally organizing the move of their hideout to another location with grieving and exhausted Scoia'tael in tow. It had not been an easy day. The plan of staking out the Kayran's lair was in ashes, just like five of his fighters, including Iorin, who had unfortunately still been in camp after delivering his message to spend some time with his lover, Kaem. The healer had cried all through the day, but nonetheless never stopped to apply poultices, bandages and set broken bones. She had shown her mettle today. Iorveth was glad, just as he was furious.

Furious with Roche for attacking; and with himself for not anticipating such a move after Margot's warning the night before. He was not in the mood for conversation and just wanted to sleep.

Of course, in that exact moment, Geralt stepped in.

Iorveth sat up straight like a bow, his heartbeat quickening immediately. He watched Geralt like a mouse might study a cat that was well-fed. He knew Geralt posed no danger to him right now, but that did not diminish the potential of future violence.

One might argue that Geralt had saved his life, and reinforced their pact, and that therefore, he was no threat. But Iorveth was keenly aware of the supple muscle beneath the white shirt, the reflexes hiding behind his calm movements, and the calculating gaze tracking Iorveth's every twitch.

Geralt was a hunter, a predator, and Iorveth had never felt it so strongly as he did in this moment.

Still, there was one thing that gave him pause.

"You are still wearing the collar" he said, dumbfounded. He hadn't really seen Geralt that much outside, both of them working in different areas. After Zoltan had helped Geralt with the ropes and ankle weights, Iorveth had assumed the leash would go as well. And yet, there sat the collar, snug around Geralt's thick neck. The rope attached to it trailed innocently over the ground.

The Witcher threw him a smug grin, tugging teasingly on the leather band. "Thought it might make you feel safer around the _big bad wolf_."

Iorveth couldn't help himself.

He laughed.

Out loud.

Geralt stopped moving, surprise washing over his face, but no one was more surprised than Iorveth. He immediately caught himself and stopped, but the sound echoed in the small cave.

Geralt smiled. "I didn't know you could laugh like that."

Iorveth shrugged, feeling oddly embarrassed. "I try not to."

“You should more often” Geralt said, voice dropping low. The thundering heartbeat in Iorveth’s chest immediately resumed, and not from fear this time. “It’s a good sound.”

“Come here” Iorveth whispered, words husky with need. This couldn’t be happening. And yet Geralt came obediently closer, the collar hugging his skin enticingly. Without breaking eye contact, Geralt pulled his shirt over his head, letting the garment fall to the ground.

Iorveth’s gaze roamed over the broad, muscular chest scattered with scars, the white dusting of hair trailing down his belly, the slim waist. Gods, that waist …

“Like what you see?” Geralt teased, crouching down in front of where Iorveth sat, dumbfounded and aroused beyond measure. He leaned in, so close that Iorveth could inhale his breath, their lips open but not touching. Still Geralt never stopped looking, and neither did Iorveth. They stared at each other, trying to prolong this moment. Knowing it was not going to last.

Iorveth was the first to break.

He grabbed the leash and pulled Geralt down to meet him. Their lips met in a searing kiss. All reason forgotten, Iorveth felt Geralt’s tongue and immediately opened his mouth wide. Geralt’s kiss overwhelmed him, made him heady and pulled every thought from his head. It was all he could do to hold on to the leash. The second Geralt let off for a second, Iorveth groaned, spit dripping down his chin. He had never felt so gone, so out of his own body. Geralt could stab him right this moment and he wouldn’t notice until the knife had torn him open.

The Witcher was thankfully otherwise occupied. His hands touched Iorveth’s cheeks and neck, his shoulders, his neck again, trailed up his head … Iorveth felt fingers playing over his bandana. With a choked sound, he grabbed Geralt’s hand, pleading voicelessly for him to stop.

Geralt’s eyes trained on his, piercing through him. It made Iorveth feel more naked than anything Geralt could have said or done. After a second, he let his hand sink, fingers carefully trailing down Iorveth’s throat.

Iorveth exhaled, shakily, leaning back so Geralt had better access.

“Trusting me finally?” the Witcher teased. Iorveth let his eyes fall closed, banishing the screams of alarm inside his head. He was fine. Geralt had saved his life. Had defended him against Roche, even though letting him die would have been easier for him.

Geralt was not going to hurt him.

A soft nibble in the hollow of his throat, prickly with stubble, followed by the promise of teeth, raised goosebumps on his skin.

Well, maybe a little. But Iorveth didn’t mind _this_ kind of pain.

Finally, he opened his eyes. Geralt was still busy with sucking and biting bruises into his skin wherever he could reach, but one of his hands had vanished into his trousers, stroking himself.

“Impatient?” Iorveth asked. He wanted to sound teasing, but it came out breathless instead. Geralt looked up at him, lips shiny and stretched in a smirk.

“You might vanish again to attend to your _responsibilities_. I’m just getting a head-start.”

Iorveth laughed and pushed Geralt’s hand away. “Let me. I promise I will not leave you thirsting again.”

Geralt licked his lips, grabbing Iorveth’s wrist and pulling it down into his trousers. “You sure?”

“Do not mock me, Gwynbleidd.”

“It was Geralt just a few hours ago.”

Iorveth snorted. “Hold my shoulders” he ordered, grabbing Geralt’s cock roughly and squeezing the base. Geralt hissed but did as ordered. He knelt with his legs spread wide. Iorveth pulled the leash forward while he began stroking Geralt’s shaft with the other. He had seen the outline during the Witcher’s bath at the waterfall, but holding the hot member in his hand was an entirely different thing. Already, he caught himself calculating if he could accommodate this size, one way or the other. Or if maybe Geralt would enjoy being mounted instead. He couldn’t really tell the other’s preferences yet. Geralt was assertive, strong, powerful, but also seemed willing to follow orders and be more passive if asked.

“If you’ll do it any slower, I will fall asleep” came a panting rebuke.

“My apologies” Iorveth said. “Would you turn around? This angle is not good.”

Geralt stared at him. “… Seriously?”

“Just do it.”

The Witcher huffed in frustration, but did turn around until he sat with his back against Iorveth’s still fully clothed chest.

“Now put your hands behind your back, like you had them when they were cuffed.”

Geralt turned his head, giving him a questioning stare. Iorveth simply raised his eyebrow. The Witcher sighed, but did as asked. Satisfied with their position at last, Iorveth snaked a hand around Geralt’s waist and resumed the work on his cock. He quickly had Geralt moaning again, rutting into his hand and against Iorveth’s covered cock as well. It was one of the reasons Iorveth had made the other turn. It made release for himself easier while not allowing Geralt to see too much.

But it also gave him … leverage.

Slowly, very slowly, he pulled on the leash, which now hung down Geralt’s naked back. The Witcher stilled, as did Iorveth. For a few moments, the only sounds were their harsh breathing. Finally, Geralt chuckled.

“Better angle, huh?”

“I can stop if you want.”

Another few seconds passed, during which Iorveth slowly stroked Geralt, just enough to keep the other interested.

At last, Geralt replied. “Continue. Stop if I release my arms.”

Iorveth leaned forward, blowing warm air into Geralt’s ear, making the witcher shiver. “I will.” And then he began pulling again.

He did it carefully, only a little at a time. Breathplay was dangerous under all circumstances, so he made sure to never pull too much or too hard, always listening to Geralt’s breath—or lack thereof. He let his fingers play over Geralt’s cock, pressing into the slit at the head, massaging the testicles, running fingernails softly over the underside.

And all the while, he deprived Geralt of oxygen.

* * *

Geralt had done choking exactly once. Except he had been the one in control that time. He hadn’t thought himself interested in receiving the restriction to his breathing, but gods, having Iorveth tighten that leash behind him just completely threw him off. He couldn’t remember when he was last this horny, and yet he couldn’t do a damn thing about it. His hands were—essentially—tied behind his back, his head was pulled back, his throat constricted, and another’s hand was taking care of his cock.

The back and forth between pleasure and losing his ability to breathe was driving him completely insane. He should have been embarrassed about how quickly the elven leader was undoing him, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. All he knew was that he chanted Iorveth’s name like a prayer when he could and gasped empty mouthfuls when he couldn’t. And then, a clever flick of the wrist, and a whisper with the words _Come for me, Geralt_ in his ear, and he shut down.

He fell backward into Iorveth, panting and gasping harshly, gulping in the air the elf had denied him, coming down from a high he could barely remember entering. He’d just suddenly been gone, flying, lifted off the ground. Too late he realized that his hips were still bucking, that Iorveth was still pulling him off, though his seed already covered his thighs and belly. It seemed Iorveth had gotten rid of his trousers at some point, at least around his groin.

Another thing he had no memory of.

“Fuck” he groaned when he thought he could speak again.

“Indeed” came the amused reply. He looked up, into Iorveth’s face, softer than he remembered it ever being. “You were quite beautiful, Gwynbleidd.”

Geralt ignored the compliment in favor of sitting up and turning to Iorveth. A quick glance to the elf’s crotch confirmed that Iorveth was hard as a rock. “Let me” he said.

“I think not.”

“Iorveth” Geralt said, exasperated. “I allowed you to _strangle_ me.”

The elf swallowed, his fingers around the leash twitching. _I’m right_ , Geralt thought. _I’m right and he knows it, but he’s still not letting go of his fear._

“I— Fine. Do as you wish.”

Geralt watched him closely, but Iorveth just returned his gaze, clearly nervous, but also proud. Good.

He leaned forward and captured Iorveth in another kiss. The elf _melted_ into him. Geralt had no idea how this had happened, how they had become this weak for each other so quickly, but it wasn’t worth questioning. He wanted Iorveth, and he would have him.

When they came apart, Geralt slowly went down until he was on his stomach, face level with Iorveth’s crotch. “Take it off” he ordered.

Iorveth began to, with somewhat shaky fingers, but stopped midway. Geralt took his hand in his own, stroking it. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

“I know.”

“So why are you afraid?”

Iorveth didn’t answer for so long that Geralt worried that he had pushed too far. He waited patiently, until the elf finally answered. “The last time I was touched like this, it was not … with my consent.”

Ice ran down Geralt’s back. He immediately sat up. “You were raped?”

The elf inclined his head. “In Drakenborg, a few years ago.”

“Where the barge is headed.” Geralt suddenly understood. Zoltan’s distaste. Iorveth’s plan. His reluctancy to open up, to show himself naked. If this was his last memory … “I’m sorry” Geralt said. “I shouldn’t have pushed. We can stop here if you want.”

Iorveth nodded, disappointment but also relief clear on his face. Geralt noticed that the elf was no longer hard. He kissed him, so gently that Iorveth actually shuddered beneath his tongue.

When he pulled back, Iorveth looked at him as if drugged. Geralt pulled his trousers back up and the shirt over his head and stood up. Maybe it was better to sleep outside, give the elf some space to process.

“What you said, during the battle” Iorveth called softly after him. “About us taking the barge together. Was that a slip of the tongue, or did you mean it?”

Geralt’s voice was tight with anger. “I meant it. And after what you just told me? Yes. I will help you capture that barge. We will free your Scoia’tael, and we will kill _anyone_ who stands in our way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Appendix: Translation of Elderspeech
> 
> Gwynbleidd: White wolf (title of the elves for Geralt)  
> Dh'oine esse caem: The humans are coming  
> Bloede … Aen me! Aen me! Ymladda dh'oine! Spar'le!: Fuck (lit. bloody) … To me! To me! Fight the humans! Attack!


	4. To kill a monster

Iorveth slept fitfully that night, his dreams plagued by foreign fingers on his bruised skin and a suffocating sense of helplessness and shame that even waking up couldn’t shake.

Unable—and unwilling—to go back to sleep, he fletched new arrows by moonlight and sharpened his sword until it gleamed. His thirst for vengeance had reignited with the dark memories. The battle for the barge could not come quickly enough.

But first, there was a monster to kill.

* * *

Iorveth was avoiding him, Geralt was certain of it. After the confession last night, he had slept outside beneath the trees on a pallet next to Zoltan, who informed him happily about all the happenings in Flotsam proper that Geralt had missed thanks to Iorveth.

The next morning, Geralt went to wake Iorveth up, maybe speak to him about their strategy in slaying the Kayran or, alternatively, kiss the elf until he was a quivering mess, but the cave was deserted, a pile of freshly fletched arrows left on the bedding Iorveth usually slept on.

Next, Geralt tried the newly erected supply base under a formation of jagged rock. Yet again, no sign of the elf. Geralt even went to the healer woman that had spoken with Iorveth a few times and asked her for his whereabouts, but she just shrugged and turned away with barely concealed anger in her eyes.

Finally, a few hours later, Iorveth appeared between the trees. He was speaking animatedly in Elderspeech with Ele’yas, his second in command, and walked straight towards him, but when he lifted his gaze and saw Geralt, he turned in another direction.

Fuming, Geralt stood up. Enough was enough.

“What’s going on?” he demanded the moment he had Iorveth backed into a corner. The elf crossed his arms, staring at him with disinterest.

“What do you mean, Gwynbleidd?”

“I tried to find you all morning.”

“I was out of camp.”

Geralt bared his teeth. “I am aware of that, thank you.”

“Are you a bored housewife now, to be nagging me for not giving you attention? I thought you’d enjoy your newly acquired freedom, but clearly I was mistaken.” He brushed past Geralt without another word.

Geralt stood there, shell-shocked. A nagging _housewife_? He was not— this was ridiculous. Still, despite Iorveth’s obviously bad mood, the elf was not entirely wrong. He had a Kayran to kill, and he knew what that entailed. Anti-venom of the most powerful sort was needed, or a single strike of the creature would overwhelm even his strengthened poison resistances and render him immobile or unconscious. As for Iorveth … better he get a lot of the stuff.

A few hours later, Geralt returned to the camp, nekker blood on his trousers, and pockets full of ostmurk, celandine and scleroderma. Geralt felt a lot more clear-headed already. He didn’t try to find Iorveth. Instead, he picked up his food ration of wild berries, mushrooms and some cooked root that tasted slightly bitter. He didn’t expect Iorveth to try and drug his food again, but he still kept an eye of the elf who portioned out the bowls and made sure it all came from the same pot.

After eating, he began brewing the potion.

* * *

“Here.”

Iorveth looked up sharply from his work. Geralt stood above him in his cave, the glower on his face still present but less intense, and held a small vial of pale-yellow liquid out to him. Iorveth raised an eyebrow.

“What is that?”

“Mongoose. A potion against the Kayran’s poison. I diluted it for you, but there will be side effects, so don’t take it until right before the battle.”

Iorveth gingerly took the vial, ignoring the spark of pleasure that shot through him as his fingers brushed the rougher skin of Geralt’s own. He inspected the potion with more scrutiny than strictly necessary. “I thought you would fight it alone” he finally said.

Geralt snorted. “Not this one. Originally Síle, that sorceress in town, would have helped me, but since you changed my plans …” At that, Iorveth smiled wolfishly. “… I will need your help, and that of some of your men. If you can spare them for the task, of course. I know how few are left.”

Iorveth ignored the verbal jab and simply nodded. “We will aid you” he said. “The faster the harbor clears, the better.” With that, he went back to sorting through the list of supplies he was currently reviewing. When he looked up again, Geralt still stood there, arms crossed patiently. “You may leave, Gwynbleidd.”

Geralt _snarled_ , the sound low and guttural in his throat. “If you want to break this thing between us off, do it, but don’t order me around like a servant that has displeased you.”

“And here I thought you liked being ordered around.”

Geralt grabbed him roughly by the shoulders, hauling him up and against the wall. “You know exactly what I mean” he hissed, punctuating the words with a hard shove. The rough stone dug painfully into Iorveth’s back, but he didn’t even twitch.

“Let go of me” he said as calmly and slowly as he could, but on the inside, he was shaking. A host of different feelings warred within him. Fear of Geralt’s strength, and the knowledge that pushing this man a bit too far was a death sentence. Anticipation of where Geralt might take this, even though Iorveth knew this was not the right moment to be lusting after the other. Rage, that Geralt treated him like this, like he owed him an apology, or even worse, kindness. And Shame, deep-seated and paralyzing.

Geralt had seen him weak, had seen the cracks in his armor. And he could never unmake that knowledge in the Witcher’s mind.

Some of these emotions must have reflected on his face, because a moment later, Geralt loosened his grip, though he didn’t let go of Iorveth’s shoulders.

“There is _nothing_ between us” Iorveth ground out between clenched teeth. “We felt an attraction, you wanted to fuck me. Now that you know that you can’t, you will lose interest.”

“Lose interest? Is this about last night?” Geralt finally asked, searching in Iorveth’s eye for something, though Iorveth didn’t know why he bothered. “I’m sorry that I pushed you too far, but I’m willing to go at your pace—”

“Stop!” Iorveth barked, shoving the Witcher off him. He was panting for some reason. “I do not need your pity, Gwynbleidd.”

“Who said anything about pity?” Geralt demanded. He looked genuinely taken aback, which infuriated Iorveth even more.

“Leave” he ordered. When Geralt didn’t react fast enough, he whirled around, grabbed his bow and aimed an arrow right at Geralt’s face. “I said _leave_!”

Geralt stared at him. He held up his hands, backing away slowly. “You need me” he said, calmly, as if to an injured animal, and that only made Iorveth pull the arrow back harder until it lay right against his cheek. “You wouldn’t kill me.”

“Try me.”

For a second, Iorveth thought Geralt might do just that, but then his former captive turned around and left the cave without another word. Iorveth relaxed the string, fingers shaking.

_If he leaves the camp now and returns to Flotsam_ , his mind whispered, _you will have no one to blame but yourself._

“He won’t” Iorveth said out loud, just to convince himself. But the words rang hollow, and he sagged against the wall, heart empty and his remaining eye burning with suppressed tears.

* * *

They set out to kill the Kayran early the next morning. Geralt walked ahead, a dozen or so Scoia’tael following sullenly behind and, with some distance, Iorveth and Ele’yas in the rear. Zoltan would be back in Flotsam by now, to make sure Triss and Dandelion were holding up under Loredo’s—and Roche’s— wrath. Geralt grimaced. He still felt vaguely guilty about opposing Roche, despite owing the agent for freeing him from prison and giving him a chance to prove his innocence.

Especially in light of last night, he almost regretted defying him so openly in defense of Iorveth. He tried to ignore the twisted knot their argument, and the maybe serious death threat, had made of his insides, but the longer Iorveth stubbornly ignored his attempts to speak to him, the harder it became.

A part of him, the proud part, understood that Iorveth was probably trying to overcompensate for the weakness he had shown in front of Geralt. But in his efforts to push Geralt away and dismiss the connection that was between them, he had hurt him greatly. Damn the bloody elf. Geralt didn’t let just anybody strangle him in bed.

All things considered, Geralt felt like shit. He wanted nothing more than to get the Kayran business over and done with, and after that?

He wasn’t sure.

Freeing the barge came next of course. He intended to keep his promise to Iorveth, even though he felt completely justified in ditching the Scoia’tael and rejoining his friends. He still needed to locate Letho though, and that was knowledge he would have to pry from Iorveth’s dead hands if he didn’t hold up his end of the bargain. And anyway, it wasn’t the other elves’ fault that they had an ass for a leader who couldn’t bear to let down his guard for one night without injuring his pride.

Geralt was so lost in thought that he nearly stumbled down the rocky slope that led to the swampy lair of the beast. The stink of rotten drowner carcasses and foul grass assaulted his nostrils. On the left, high above, the ruin of a broken stone bridge blotted out the sky, and up ahead, the murky water bubbled menacingly in irregular bursts.

He looked around, trying to gauge where the ground was stable enough for a fight, and where he’d sink into the mud.

Suddenly, Iorveth stepped up next to him.

“I sent Ele’yas up to the bridge with the others” Iorveth said, looking stoically ahead without meeting Geralt’s eyes. “How do we lure it from the water?”

“ _Now_ he’s talking to me” Geralt drawled.

Iorveth threw him a quick glance. There was something like uncertainty on his face, despite most of it being hidden by the cloth. “I appreciate that you are still with us. After last night, I wasn’t sure.”

“I should have returned to Flotsam” Geralt agreed, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice.

“Then why didn’t you?”

Geralt shrugged. “Waiting to see if a certain proud Aen Seidhe can see reason.”

The corner of Iorveth’s mouth lifted. “A futile hope.”

Sighing, Geralt gestured towards the Pontar. “Your archers should shoot into the water, where the bubbles are. With some luck, it will annoy the Kayran enough to show itself.”

“And if not?” Iorveth asked.

“Then we bait it.”

“We brought no bait.”

Geralt drew his silver sword, watching the mottled light reflect on the gleaming surface. “That’s what you brought me for, isn’t it?”

Iorveth drew back sharply. “If you cannot kill it, if you think it is too risky an endeavor, then tell me now. We will find another way. You need not risk yourself recklessly”

“Why the sudden concern?” Geralt asked. “Just yesterday you told me that there is nothing between us. If I die killing the Kayran, I’ll have served my purpose.”

Iorveth stared at him, silent. “Is that what you think?”

“Am I wrong?”

The elf didn’t answer, his face giving away no emotion. “Shoot at the water” he finally ordered, loud enough that his elves on the bridge could hear him. Geralt and I will fight it from down here.”

Geralt chanced a glance upward. The Scoia’tael nodded and took position, some of them with frowns on their faces. Ele’yas waited the longest, watching them in silent judgement before finally turning around and following the others.

Iorveth unstrapped his bow and chugged the vial of Mongoose. Geralt did the same, feeling a soft burning all the way down his throat. Next to him, Iorveth audibly gagged.

“What vile poison is this?” he gasped, dropping the glass flask into the moss.

“One that protects you from even worse poison, so don’t complain.” He paused. “Are you sure you want to fight down here? Your Mongoose is less potent, if you get hit by a strong enough dose, it _will_ kill you.”

“I am not giving you the pleasure of claiming the kill all by yourself” Iorveth said. “Besides, I will stand behind you, so whatever poison comes our way, you’ll be hit first.”

Geralt grunted, but he couldn’t help but smile. He had missed their banter.

Suddenly, a screech rolled towards them from the river. They turned around as one, quickly locating the tentacle that was rising from the depths, lazily hitting the water. More arrows rained down and struck the reddish-gray carapace. Above them, on the stone arch, the Scoia’tael loosened one arrow after the other. Some finally found the softer flesh of the tentacles. The Kayran screeched again, lifting itself out of the water completely this time.

Geralt and Iorveth jumped down into the swampy river bank, carefully walking up to the beast.

It looked like a giant octopus, if an octopus were big as a house, with a maw ringed by rows and rows of teeth, and spiky tentacles that thickened at the end and dripped with poisonous mucus.

“Lovely” Geralt commented. “Remind me again why I didn’t ditch you?”

“Must be my charming personality.”

Another hail of arrows rained down on the Kayran that finally located the origin of its tormentors. A tentacle shot from the water, smashing against the ruins of the bridge and breaking off a huge chunk of stone that crashed into the marsh.

“Target the maw if you can” Geralt said, smearing some Falka’s blood on his sword for good measure. “Stay away from the tentacles and especially from the poison. I’ll take care of the rest.”

Iorveth inclined his head. “As you wish. Ymladda va, Geralt.”

“You too.” With that, Geralt ran forward, sword raised, and immediately dove aside as a tentacle crushed down above him, only to get back up in the same movement and swing his sword down in a wide arc. The skin was leathery and covered in small carapace sections, which gave the tentacle its maneuverability and durability. Geralt gritted his teeth when his sword only scratched the skin before the heavy appendage lifted itself again. Two arrows whirred past him and struck the main body, but only one pierced the armor, the other was deflected and fell into the water.

Geralt danced from side to side, evading the somewhat sluggish attacks of the creature. It was huge and powerful, but it was also a beast of the deep riverbeds and it showed, now that most of the body was out of the water. Lucky for them, or they would never stand a chance.

With a feint to the side, Geralt dodged another strike, only to whirl back around and target one of the softer nodes of the tentacle that was currently embedded in the soft ground. One, two, three hacks later, and the appendage flopped lifelessly to the ground, foul-smelling mucus and bright blood dripping from his sword. The Kayran screamed, thrashing its remaining tentacles wildly and hitting the bridge again. The continuous hail of arrows paused as the Scoia’tael ran for cover, giving up their position, only seconds before the ruins fully collapsed and buried Geralt in a cloud of dust.

* * *

Iorveth saw the inside of the maw, the weak spot, that deep red patch in the throat, for just a second, but before he could loosen his arrow, the ring of teeth closed again and formed a shield. A moment later, the bridge collapsed with a thunderous rumble. Stone fragments and pulverized mortar rained down, taking Iorveth’s sight.

Cursing and choking, he jumped back, arrow still notched, but without vision the risk of hitting Geralt was too great.

“All part of the plan, I assume?” he coughed.

“Fuck you!”

Iorveth grinned, filing the position of the voice away and squinting. When he lost his eye in Drakenborg, he did not expect to ever be a decent archer again. But he had underestimated how much sheer spite and anger could make up for. He was no longer the best, but damn him if he wasn’t close.

_Isengrim would be proud._

The thought stung, so Iorveth shoved it aside.

The dust slowly cleared, sinking to the marshy floor and opening up the hazy view of the Kayran again. Iorveth quickly checked the bridge, but there was no sign of his Scoia’tael, and the remaining stone arch that still held looked like it might collapse any second.

They had no more time to lose.

While he analyzed all this, Geralt threw himself back into the fight. How he managed to evade the tentacles, Iorveth would never understand. Even to his trained eye, Geralt’s form seemed to blur with the speed of his reactions. He had to admire the witcher’s agility and strength, and tried very hard to ignore the twinge in his chest. Sharp. But not unpleasant.

The Kayran was completely focused on Geralt. Its body and maw turned more and more away from Iorveth, who stood still, while Geralt got further and further away from him, dodging and jumping to keep out of reach of the tentacles. Which meant Iorveth could no longer target the weak spot accurately.

“Cover me!” he screamed and jumped down into the soggy grass. Geralt threw him a quick look, but thankfully didn’t argue, simply nodded and resumed his deadly dance. Iorveth lowered his bow and sprinted in Geralt’s direction, staying away as well as he could in the enclosed space, until he reached a giant bridge boulder that was high enough to use as cover. With his back to the stone, he peered around the corner, lifting his bow and notching his arrow. The Kayran screeched in anger. Another cut-off tentacle twitched on the ground, leaking poison into the mud. Geralt ripped his sword from the violet-gray flesh, but then his foot caught on something, maybe a root or a tangled piece of grass, and he stumbled.

Not much.

But enough for the Kayran to open his maw and _screech._

Iorveth saw the string of poisonous slime that shot from its mouth and right into Geralt’s face, who had just enough time to shield himself with his arms before he screamed in pain. Iorveth noticed all this, but only in the periphery of his vision. Because the second those teeth pulled away to release the poison, he aimed and let fly, the arrow whirring past Geralt’s head with only a finger’s width to spare, and into the Kayran’s open mouth.

The creature screamed, its maw opening wider for just a moment, and Iorveth’s second arrow hit, quickly followed by a third and fourth. Shaking, the Kayran started swinging its tentacles wildly, nearly hitting Geralt, who was curled over in pain and stumbled backwards blindly, cursing and rubbing at his face.

Iorveth shot a quick look at the tentacles that rained down like whips, and made a decision. He left his cover, ran to Geralt, grabbed him under the arm and pulled him with him.

Geralt let himself be led with only a little resistance, but suddenly he threw them both to the ground. A tentacle crashed down next to them, right where they had stood a second earlier.

“Good call” Iorveth gasped, pushing back to his feet and helping Geralt up. “Hurry!”

The witcher, to his credit, began running despite his obvious pain, and Iorveth led him in the right direction, past the boulder, to safety.

Panting, they sank down. Iorveth finally had time to inspect the damage. Geralt’s eyes were shut tight, but his face was spattered with spots of red and violet that seemed to burn into his skin. The rest of his body was thankfully covered by leather, but the gloves he wore were eaten up by the acid. Iorveth pulled them off quickly, then poured water over Geralt’s face, forcing his eyes open with his fingers.

“I thought this is what we took the Mongoose for” Iorveth commented dryly when Geralt was no longer grunting in pain.

“It’s in my fucking _eyes_ ” Geralt panted. “The poison is neutralized, but not … the acid … _fuck_!”

“More water?” Iorveth asked. He eyed Geralt with growing weariness. The witcher’s eyes were shot with blood and tearing heavily. Hopefully there would be no lasting damage. He needed to get Geralt to Kaem, quickly. She would be back with the others, treating any injuries. She had been part of the Kayran squad, but not on the bridge.

“Is … is it dead?” Geralt finally managed. Iorveth looked around the corner of their stone boulder. The Kayran was no longer wrecking the marsh, which he took for a good sign, but it also still seemed to be alive. The heavy body lay on the ground, remaining tentacles twitching sporadically.

“Not quite” Iorveth said. “But it should be soon.”

“No” Geralt said, standing up shakily.

Iorveth raised a weary eyebrow. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Finishing it. That thing is magical. No Kayran grows this big in a small river. It will have regenerative abilities. We need to end it right now before it recovers.”

Iorveth stood up as well. “You are in no condition to fight. I can shoot it again.”

“Won’t work” Geralt said. “We have to hit the brain. The only accessible part of it is on the back of its head.”

“You want to climb it? Are you insane, Geralt?”

“Apparently.” With that, he poured the last remaining bit of water into his eyes, growled and carefully opened them fully. He started staggering forward.

Iorveth cursed and followed, pulling Geralt’s free arm over his shoulders and helping him balance. “Just give me the silver sword and let me do it” he tried, but Geralt shook his head.

“Needs a lot of strength. Mutant strength.”

“Bloede Vatt’ghern …”

For some reason, this amused Geralt greatly. “I could show you what else I can do with it.”

It took a second for the words to register. “Are you flirting with me? In this situation?”

Geralt just kept smiling, and Iorveth let the matter rest. Still, his heartbeat quickened another fraction. Geralt’s strength in bed … thinking about that did not leave him unfazed. Too late he remembered that another part of Geralt’s witcher mutations was the increased hearing. He shot Geralt a look, who grinned smugly. Damn his heart for beating so loudly.

“I _will_ drop you.”

“If you say so.”

Climbing the Kayran proved easier than expected, to Iorveth’s relief. So long as Iorveth showed him where to grab, Geralt easily lifted himself up, following Iorveth’s much nimbler movements. The Kayran twitched underneath their weight, but its breathing came in wheezy stutters and the tentacles only tried to lift a few times before dropping back down. Iorveth’s arrows had done their job.

Finally, on top of the beast, Geralt lifted the sword, felt around the hard carapace with his boot until he found what he was looking for. He stabbed down, hard.

The silver met resistance for a brief moment, then plunged deep into the Kayran’s brain. The remaining strength of the beast left it; the whole body dropped down as all the muscle went slack and lifeless.

“Done” Geralt sighed, dropping down on his ass and closing his eyes wearily.

“We need to reach Kaem” Iorveth said, hating that he had to push Geralt so hard when all he wanted was to sink down next to him. His muscles were sore and his face was bleeding from some of the shrapnel that had rained down.

Geralt nodded, tired, but accepting. When Iorveth leaned down to help him up, a loud slap sounded behind them. He whirled around, arrow already drawn, and found himself face to face with a red-faced Triss. She stood in what looked like a shimmering mirror of flickering blue light that reflected nothing. Instead, Iorveth could see townfolk and soldiers in the background, though at a distance. It looked like … the Flotsam market?

“Geralt!” Triss yelled, her voice sounding weirdly far away, considering that she hovered only a meter or so away. “You need to come through!”

“What?” Geralt stared at her, rubbing again at his reddened eyes. “Why? You know that I hate portals, Triss!”

“It’s Dandelion” she pleaded, stepping aside so that they could finally see what the bustle behind her was. Soldiers held people back, a colorfully dressed man was slowly led up wooden stairs. “He’s going to be hanged!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Appendix: Translation of Elderspeech
> 
> Gwynbleidd: White wolf (title of the elves for Geralt)  
> Ymladda va: Fight well  
> Bloede Vatt’ghern: Stupid witcher


	5. Last of a kind

Geralt jumped up, the sharp pain in his eyes forgotten. “Then why aren’t you helping him?” he demanded, already moving towards the portal. Triss looked strained. Her arms trembled and the portal around her flickered constantly. Shit. Seemed like she was barely holding on.

“I can’t get close” Triss explained in a rush. “Síle is interfering and I am still weak from that sleeping spell against Roche’s men. “Just get through already before I collapse!”

“Wait” said Iorveth, grabbing his arm. “Let me get my Scoia’tael. We can help.”

“I can’t keep the portal stable that long” Triss said, anger now lacing her voice. “Besides, that is too many people. I only have strength for one. Or two at maximum” she added when Iorveth’s grip around Geralt’s arm immediately tightened.

“Let me go” Geralt growled. “Follow if you want, but I am not letting Dandelion die.”

“Bloede Daerienn …” the elf muttered, but he loosened his grip so that Geralt could walk through the portal. He was not surprised when Iorveth stepped through after him.

“I heard that” Triss informed Iorveth, then the portal collapsed and she flopped down unconsciously. Geralt just managed to catch her and not fall himself, despite feeling weakened from the fight. His eyes still burned horribly, but the pain barely registered.

Dandelion. He had to get to him. _Now_.

“He’s already up there” Iorveth said, gesturing towards the scaffold that Geralt remembered from his first day in Flotsam. What trouble had Dandelion gotten himself into now? He searched for Dandelion’s violet hat and quickly spotted him. His best friend was visibly shaking. A noose was already being tightened around his neck. The bard balanced precariously on the wooden floor, arms tied behind his back.

There was no time to reach Dandelion. Still, Geralt ran. He watched everything in slow-motion, the hangman reaching for the lever, Dandelion panicking and straining against the rope, Loredo in the first row, laughing and clapping his hands, with Síle right next to him. He even saw Zoltan, who was held back by no less than four soldiers who tackled him to the ground. The crowd was bustling with excitement, standing in thick clusters. Geralt pushed forward, got held up by the wall of flesh in front of him.

The hangman pulled the lever.

The floor collapsed beneath Dandelion’s feet and he flopped down, choking and squirming.

_His neck’s not broken_ , Geralt thought feverishly, now aggressively fighting his way through the audience. _I still have a little time, I can still make it, I can—_

Dandelion shuddered, went still.

A whirring shot past his ear.

The rope snapped and an arrow embedded itself in the wooden beam of the scaffold, while Dandelion fell to the floor and began wheezing and gasping for air.

Geralt didn’t need to turn around to know what had happened. He could imagine Iorveth’s focused look that he only got when he aimed his arrow, the sharp smile in his face, proud for having hit such a small target.

And he thought, _I can never repay him for this_.

* * *

Iorveth stared after his arrow just long enough to see it hit its target, then turned and tried to shake Triss awake. The sorceress lay on her side, eyes closed and limp as a doll.

There was no waking her.

Desperate, Iorveth looked up again, just in time to see Geralt finally fight his way out of the mass of people screaming in anger at the botched execution. The witcher grabbed Dandelion, who was still wheezing but seemed at least able to stand, and pulled him from the scaffold. A bald man with a potbelly stepped forward. Iorveth recognized him immediately.

Loredo.

“This is my town!” the commandant yelled. “And in this town, my word is law! The bard dies, witcher, and you with him. Take them!”

Iorveth knew it was sheer luck that the patrolling soldiers hadn’t seen him yet. The alley lay in shadow, but anyone with eyes should have seen where that arrow came from. Still, for now, he was safe. With a last glance at Triss, Iorveth notched his arrow.

This was all happening too fast. His elves were probably still at the Kayran lair, waiting for Geralt and him to return. Triss was unconscious, unable to help him get them a message or bring them here via portal, and he was alone, behind enemy lines, with Geralt in the middle of soldiers.

They couldn’t take the barge like this.

But he’d be damned if he didn’t finish Loredo before he died.

While the soldiers started fighting their way through the thick crowd, Geralt pulled Dandelion up until the bard stood behind him. He drew his sword, cast some kind of spell that shimmered into existence around them, and went into fighting stance. The hangman meanwhile stood on the scaffold, inspecting the arrow that Iorveth had shot.

Suddenly, he cried out. “SCOIA’TAEL!” he called, backing away on shaky legs. “Scoia’tael in the city!”

His cry was quickly taken up by the populace that started panicking and running in all directions. Iorveth cursed and loosened his arrow, but Loredo stumbled as two whores ran past him and he missed his target, instead hitting a soldier standing right behind him.

“One dh’oine less” Iorveth snarled and immediately drew again. Geralt was still protecting Dandelion with his body, but after the hangman’s warning, Loredo seemed much less interested in the witcher. Paranoid, the bald commandant looked around, and finally spotted Iorveth.

“There he is!” he yelled. “Bring me his fucking head!”

Iorveth hissed and drew again, but before he could shoot, another arrow shot down from the city walls and embedded itself in Loredo’s shoulder. The commandant cried out in pain, clutching the wound, blood dripping through his fingers.

Iorveth lost sight of him afterwards as more Flotsam people ran away from the marketplace, but he wasn’t really looking. He turned around, following the path of the arrow to the wall right behind them. On top sat, bow at the ready, one of his elves.

“Re’li!” he called.

His sharpshooter looked down, eyes widening. “Iorveth? What are you doing here? How did you get inside?”

“Magical portal!” Iorveth called back. He could barely believe his luck. “Are the others with you?”

“Waiting outside! I was supposed to sneak in and open the door, but I couldn’t resist the shot.”

“I’ll open the gate, you keep shooting!”

Re’li nodded in affirmation, then went back to loosening arrow after arrow. Iorveth shot Geralt a last glance, but the witcher was still alive, which was the best he could hope for. He’d have to fend for himself for a while.

* * *

Geralt didn’t know what was going on, only that Dandelion stood wheezing and jelly-kneed behind him and that Loredo had an arrow stuck in his shoulder. He cast a glance towards the alley that he had come from, but Iorveth was gone and Triss lay motionless on the ground.

“Shit.”

“G-geralt? What do we do now?” Dandelion inquired from behind him.

“We get Zoltan, pick up Triss and fight our way towards the barge” Geralt said with more confidence than he felt.

“Why the f-fucking barge?”

“Just trust me!” He didn’t have time to explain everything to Dandelion. Loredo was slowly coming back to his senses and screamed at his soldiers to fucking attack the bloody witcher already, which they did.

Geralt blocked the first hit of a sword with his own, the impact jarring up his arms, and caught the soldier with a kick to the legs. Ripping himself free, he slashed through the neck of another, but a crossbow bolt hit his Quen shield and it cracked. “We have to move forward” Geralt gasped while locked in combat with a third soldier who was pressing him with half decent attacks. “Stay close to me.”

Under other circumstances, fighting against a handful of Loredo’s men would have been easy, but Geralt had to be careful not to hit Dandelion with his sword, so pirouettes were out of the question, as were large jumps or rolls, since he needed to defend his friend constantly. In addition, the market was in chaos, people still screaming and running around. It was getting emptier by the second, but it was still too crowded for Geralt to chance something like Igni or even Aard. He was here to take the barge, not to start another massacre.

And of course, his eyes were in really bad condition. He kept blinking and tearing up, which made for even harder fighting. And to top it off, Iorveth had ditched him.

He was not in the best of mindsets right now.

Still, he had a bard to protect and a dwarf to save, so he swallowed his irritation and anger and fueled himself with it. Loredo would rue the day he had made an enemy of Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf.

Slowly, he fought his way forward, hacking and slashing whenever a soldier dared to come near him. Loredo had retreated even further and ordered his men from a safe distance away where he was under cover from any arrows.

If only Iorveth’s arrow had hit him in the neck!

Two more soldiers came closer, but they eyed the corpses of their fellow men with trepidation and hesitated. A second too long, for all this time, the crowds had further dispersed.

Geralt flashed a hungry grin, knowing that his face and armor were spattered with blood, and cast Yrden.

A violet light flashed around them in a circle, the soldiers freezing where they stood, horror reflecting in their eyes. With two quick slashes, their heads rolled. Behind him, Dandelion gagged, which Geralt took as a good sign.

Finally, they reached Zoltan, who lay beaten and bloody on the ground, two dead soldiers next to him that he must have taken down before they overpowered him. Geralt fell to his knees next to the dwarf, shaking him. “Zoltan! Zoltan, wake up!”

“Urghs …” Zoltan turned his head, blinking against the sunlight. “Am I dreaming? Geralt? Is that you?”

“Yes, it’s me. Dandelion is with me. We need to get Triss and scram.”

“Right, right … Melitele’s ample bosom, what is _that_?”

Geralt followed his gaze and his mouth dropped open. Greenclad figures emerged from every alley, manned every wall, walked slowly towards the marketplace, swords lifted and arrows notched. And leading them was none other than Iorveth himself, with Ele’yas right behind him.

* * *

Iorveth reached the gate only a minute later. It was guarded by two soldiers who died with their mouths open in shocked surprise, having been too busy playing cards to see him coming. After a short search, he found the keys and opened the thick wooden doors that led to the eastern forest and fishing village right outside the walls.

Outside, he was greeted by Ele’yas’ speechless face.

“How in the —”

“Magical Portal” Iorveth cut him off. “Geralt is already fighting, the Kayran is dead. We can take the barge now, before they have time to form their defense.”

“That was our plan as well” Ele’yas agreed, leading the Scoia’tael inside and through the gates into the town that sat like a cancer in their forest. “After the bridge collapsed, we couldn’t reach you anymore, so I decided to take the barge while you and the Vatt’ghern finished the Kayran.”

“And would you have waited for me before you set sail?” Iorveth asked, amused.

Ele’yas shrugged. “Probably not. Saskia needs our forces now, and the longer we try to hold the barge, the higher the risk that we get overwhelmed. If you had died, it would have been the right call, and if you survived, you’d have found a way to follow.”

Iorveth laughed, which earned him a surprised look from his elves, but he didn’t mind. Ciaran, his former commander, would have never left him. He would have waited on that barge until it rotted, or even led the elves into the Kayran lair to help their leader.

It was a relief, to have someone backing him who would make the hard decisions when it mattered, and who’d take control should Iorveth die abruptly.

“You did well” he said, and drew his sword. “Now let’s kill some dh’oine.”

* * *

Geralt and Dandelion half carried Zoltan upright between them. The Scoia’tael had taken over the city, their surprise attack killing a bunch of soldiers before they had time to regroup. Now though, Roche’s Blue Stripes were out in full force, and Geralt tried desperately to catch sight of Iorveth again who had thrown himself into battle immediately, vanishing between the wooden houses.

Geralt feared for the common folk with all these bloodthirsty Aen Seidhe on the loose, but there was nothing he could do. He needed to get his friends and then get the hell out of here. When they reached the alley where he had left Triss, he was relieved to see that she was awake and leaning against the brick wall of the nearest house, massaging her head.

“Triss” Geralt called. “We need to get to the barge, quickly.”

“Geralt?” She looked up. “Dandelion! You’re alive! I wasn’t sure if I would make it in time.”

“You did, and I am very glad, but Zoltan is in bad shape.”

“We have to reach the barge before the Scoia’tael leave” Geralt added. “Iorveth will let us go with them since I helped free the Pontar, and Flotsam is about to turn into another Blaviken.”

“Right” Triss said, nodding and bracing herself against the house facade to get on her feet. “Lead the way. I’ll spare my magic for an emergency, so don’t rely on me.”

“Just catch your breath” Geralt said, scanning the marketplace for the safest way to the harbor, but wherever he looked, Scoia’tael were either locked in combat with Loredo’s men or Bluestripes. “We’ll have to fight our way through.”

“Not so” Dandelion disagreed, huffing and shifting beneath Zoltan’s weight. The dwarf was short, but very compact and much heavier than he looked. “I know a … hidden way.”

“And how?” Triss asked. “Don’t tell me you already have all your escape routes planned out for when you next tumble someone’s wife?”

Dandelion blushed in indignation. “I am a concerned citizen visiting this town, taking my time to accustom myself with its infrastructure in case of attack and you _dare_ imply that I—”

“Escape routes” Geralt interrupted him.

“Escape routes” Zoltan agreed, grinning.

“Well, if you must know, it was only once, maybe twice, if you count that other time, but really, these accusations are getting out of hand!”

“Just show us the way to the harbor” Geralt sighed.

With a somewhat disgruntled bard in the lead, they made their way through tiny alleys and hidden streets behind rundown buildings until they reached the other side of the city.

“That’s as far as it goes” Dandelion said. They huddled together between a butcher shop and a deserted shed, and watched the fighting that was going on in front of them on the streets. The Scoia’tael were holding up better than Geralt had expected. Then again, most of Loredo’s garrison had been taken out before they’d known what hit them. Roche’s unit was a bigger problem. Geralt still didn’t see Roche though, or Iorveth for that matter.

He couldn’t help the uneasy feeling in his gut, but there was no time to search for the elf. Surely, he was already at the ship.

That’s when he heard, almost too silent to pick up, the sound of a very familiar voice.

* * *

Iorveth spat blood onto the cobble stones, his head spinning. Another strike came at him form the side, and he just managed to get his sword up to block it before the blade cut into his flesh, but the impact knocked him backwards. He stared up at the man with the blue turban that currently stood in front of him.

Roche’s face was twisted in fury and hatred. Iorveth knew exactly why. His elves had done their job well. Not many of Roche’s unit would survive today. “Tell me you at least took care of Loredo before you came after me” he taunted, carefully getting back up. “I may have terrorized the forest, but he has betrayed king and country for money. But you’d be aware of that, surely? The Special Forces Commander himself wouldn’t miss such obvious conspiracy and corruption in a town this important.”

“Spare your words, elf” Roche barked. “I will take care of you and yours first, and then I will see Loredo hang.”

“You think he is still here?” Iorveth taunted, buying time with every second that they spent talking and not fighting. His head hurt and his arms were burning from the continued fighting. “The Kayran is dead, the harbor clear. He is already back at his mansion, clawing together his valuables so he can flee with a ship and leave Flotsam to rot.”

“I would have him on a string already if it weren’t for your attack” Roche snarled, circling closer. They were alone in the street; the fighting had already moved on. Iorveth was glad he got a shot at his enemy, but he was not in the best of conditions.

“Squaess’me, dh’oine. I apologize for not scheduling the rescue of my men to suit your needs.”

“Stop _talking_ already!” With that, Roche flew forward, sword blinking in the sunlight. Iorveth caught the attack, blocking it and pushing the commander off him, just to dance away again. Roche and he began circling each other, each step mirrored exactly.

With a feint to the left, Iorveth finally broke the dance. He shifted his weight, angling his weapon just so, and Roche, riled up from before, sprang forward to attack. Except Iorveth was not going left, he was going right, and in the next moment, he had Roche on the ground, sword at his throat.

“Did you know that I killed every single one of the special forces commanders in the North? All, except for you.”

“You think death frightens me?” Roche spat, pushing up from the cobbles but pressed back down by the sharp blade at his neck. “Come on. Finish what you started, murderer.”

“I shan’t kill you” Iorveth said, carefully pronouncing every syllable while he knelt down next to the commander. “The Aen Seidhe never kill the last specimen of a dying breed. Live on, and remember that I can defeat you again, whenever I wish. Va fail, Vernon Roche.”

With the hilt of his sword, he hit Roche against the temple, and watched as his enemy dropped limp to the ground. The tension left him and he stared at the body in front of him.

“Iorveth!”

Iorveth turned around, only to find himself face to face with Geralt and his friends. The dwarf looked worst, face swollen and bloody, but the rest looked no better. The bard’s neck was chafed raw and red from the rope and Triss seemed dizzy and weak.

Geralt was unwounded, if one discounted the injuries he had already suffered from the Kayran, and stared at Roche’s seemingly lifeless form. “Did you kill him?”

“If I did, what would you do?” Iorveth challenged, standing up and shaking blood from his weapon. The witcher swallowed, but in the end said nothing. “Do not worry” Iorveth said. “He is alive and well. If I hurt anything today, it will be his pride. Come. I need to catch up with my men.”

“Iorveth” Geralt said, gripping his arm. “He had a deal. Where is Letho?”

Coldness, like ice-water, pooled in Iorveth’s belly. “Why do you wish to know? So you can go your own merry way?”

Geralt looked at him, his eyes almost completely red from the Kayran poison. “I need to know if we stay on the barge when it’s taken, or if we make our own way on foot. Just answer the question.” He hesitated. “Or do you still not trust me?”

Iorveth returned the challenging glare the other shot him. But in the end, he realized, he did.

He trusted Geralt. And if he was proven wrong today, then it would be another lesson for him. “Aedirn” he replied. “Letho and his lackeys will try to assassinate Henselt, who is camped outside of Vergen.”

“King Henselt!” Triss exclaimed. Iorveth watched her carefully. He could already see her mind turning this information around in her political mind. She would know what it meant. Geralt of course, was not this quick.

“Isn’t Vergen the town that Saskia rules? That queen of yours?”

“She is not mine, nor anyone else’s, but yes, that very same town.”

“So, we’re going in the exact same direction?”

“It would appear so.”

“Geralt, no, please” Dandelion pleaded. “Let’s get another ship. I’m not ready to spend multiple days together with Scoia’tael and nothing but water around!”

“I’m afraid your objection falls on deaf ears” Triss drawled. “Geralt will only be too happy to spend more time with Iorveth in closed quarters. Isn’t that right, Geralt?”

The witcher grunted and threw her an annoyed look, but he said, “Fine. We’ll share the ride.”

The bard looked between Iorveth and Geralt anxiously. “Geralt, what does she mean with that? Geralt?”

But the witcher had already turned away, and Iorveth gladly followed his example.

_“Geralt!”_

* * *

They met up with the remainder of Iorveth’s unit at the harbor. Roche’s defeat had slowed the advance of the Special Forces, and all of Loredo’s men, including the commandant himself, had taken up position on the barge. So far, the crew was oblivious to the fact that the waters of the Pontar were no longer protected by the Kayran, but Síle was missing. If Triss was right in her assumption, the sorceress had been sent by Loredo to take care of the Kayran, and when she found out that the beast was dead, the barge would set sail immediately.

Geralt stood together with Iorveth and Ele’yas behind a building while the rest of the Scoia’tael caught their breath. “We need to attack _now_ ” Ele’yas said. He kept glancing over to the ship, fearful of its sudden departure.

“We’re still missing half our men” Iorveth countered. “They are fighting what’s left of the Special Forces. We can’t leave them.”

“Sentimentality will not win Saskia’s war.”

“Neither will showing up with fifty archers less” Iorveth shot back. “If you are in such a hurry, try to rally them. Get some of the others to help you. They should have recovered their strength by now.”

Ele’yas opened his mouth as if to argue, then simply nodded and left.

“He talks back an awful lot” Geralt said with crossed arms, watching the elf speak to a few other Scoia’tael. “You sure that he’s the right choice as your second in command?”

“I need no yea-sayers.”

“He seems pretty obsessed with this Saskia. I thought that was your special thing.”

“My _thing_? What are you talking about, Gwynbleidd?”

“Ah, back to that, are we?” Geralt huffed, annoyed. “Can you decide on what to call me already or am I supposed to gauge your mood depending on your choice of words?”

Iorveth sighed, rubbing his forehead. “Don’t you have something better to do?”

“I agree with Ele’yas.” Geralt nodded towards the barge. “The ship is close quarters. You don’t need all your Scoia’tael to take it. How many men can Loredo have left? Twenty? Thirty? We can take them.”

“And do you also have a plan on how to attack, or should we waltz right into their arms?” Geralt stayed silent and Iorveth chuckled humorlessly. “I didn’t think so.”

Geralt ground his teeth. The truth was, he didn’t. If Dandelion hadn’t been strung up, a move by Loredo in revenge against his own involvement with Iorveth, as he now knew, he would have proposed to pretend that Iorveth was his prisoner and gotten them both on the ship, nice and undercover. Now though, he was clearly a traitor, and all he could bring to the table was raw fighting prowess. In addition, the ship was now manned better than any part of town.

“There’s no getting around a fight” he finally said. Iorveth eyed him, but he kept speaking. “Loredo has turtled himself up. We need to overwhelm them.”

“And hence my hesitation to attack with half my unit’s strength” Iorveth said very slowly, as if he was speaking to a child. “You are an admirable fighter, Gwynbleidd, but leave strategy to me.”

Geralt fought hard not to flush. The worst part was, only some of it came from humiliation. He was loath to admit it, but their constant bickering had him on edge. In a very turned on kind of way. Too bad that there was no privacy for them anywhere, and after Triss’ less than subtle explanation of their relationship to Dandelion and Zoltan, he felt their eyes on him every second.

Also, he and Iorveth were not exactly back on fucking terms.

“Geralt.”

“Hm? What?”

“Oh, now I have his attention.” Iorveth looked at him with a slight frown. “Were you listening to me?”

Geralt huffed, scratching his neck. “Clearly not. What were you saying?”

Iorveth leaned in, tracing the outline of his eye and cheek with a gloved hand. “Your eyes look worse.” He pulled away, but Geralt’s hand shot up and grabbed the wrist, holding it in place. Iorveth lifted his one visible eyebrow in wry amusement. Geralt hated how well he was able to read the elf’s every single facial cue, but there it was.

“Don’t” he said through clenched teeth.

He expected teasing from Iorveth, a snide remark, but the elven leader stayed silent, studying him carefully. Maybe he too had gotten better at reading Geralt’s face.

“Geralt” he began, and from that one word alone, Geralt knew that some of his feelings had reflected in his face. “The other night, it was not my intention to …” He caught himself, clearly struggling with what he wanted to say. “Yesterday was a mistake. I should not have threatened you, nor spoken to you the way I did.”

Geralt stared at the elf, speechless. A warmth spread inside him that was, despite their close proximity, not lust, but something bigger, something too grave to grasp right now. Instead, he leaned in silver-quick and pressed their foreheads together, inhaling the sharp, herby scent of the elf.

“Apology accepted.”

From behind them came a hooting sound. Iorveth pulled away hastily, and Geralt checked with a frown to see who had interrupted their moment. He was not at all surprised to see Zoltan elbowing a grinning Dandelion in the hip. He threw them a less than polite gesture.

“Iorveth” came a frosty voice from behind them. Geralt turned around and found Ele’yas standing there, a few dozen bloodied Scoia’tael in tow. He glared daggers at Geralt, but finally turned away to speak to his leader. “All are accounted for.”

Iorveth nodded tersely. “Then we attack.” He looked over to Geralt, whose heart pounded out of his chest at the weight of the other’s gaze. “Are you still with us?”

Geralt smiled. “I’ll have your back, no matter what.”

He might have imagined the softness in Iorveth’s eye.

But he didn’t think so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Appendix: Translation of Elderspeech
> 
> Gwynbleidd: White wolf (title of the elves for Geralt)  
> Bloede Daerienn: Stupid sorceress  
> Aen Seidhe: Elf (lit. people of the hill)  
> Squaess’me, dh’oine: Forgive me, human  
> Va fail: Goodbye


	6. What the heart wants

Attacking the barge was easy; doing it while maintaining the element of surprise much harder. Iorveth had his archers hide on the roofs lining the harbor, with another unit silently approaching over the docks.

Had the barge been manned normally, maybe two dozen archers with swords at the ready could have snuck up in pairs, hiding behind crates and fishing nets, but with all of Loredo’s remaining forces on deck, it did not take long for the first soldier’s cry of _enemy_ to ring through the rapidly cooling evening air.

This was when the archers on the roofs began shooting. Before the soldiers could muster their defense, arrows hissed down from the sky into their ranks, snatching lives and—most importantly—keeping Loredo’s soldiers contained on the ship.

Iorveth gave his signal and the hidden Scoia’tael sprang from their covers and ran for the barge.

Of course, Ele’yas and his elves were already there.

Iorveth’s second in command had taken their best swimmers, divested them of all heavy clothing and swum with them under the cover of the brown Pontar water to the ship, where they climbed the sides and attacked their enemy from behind, just in time to decimate their numbers before Iorveth and Geralt arrived.

And that was where they were now.

With every piercing scream and dead body collapsing to the wooden boards, the smell of coppery blood and piss thickened in the air. Geralt hacked at his next target, hardly more than a youth, who was already backing away. He felt bad, a little, but knowing what his opponent would do to Iorveth were sides reversed, quickly culled his empathy. The boy’s head rolled to the deck, face stuck in a grotesque grimace of rolling eyes and open mouth, while blood flowed freely and soaked into the wooden boards.

From the corner of his eye, Geralt saw a swing coming and ducked just in time to evade it, but another already came from the other side and he just managed to cast Quen before it landed, shattering his shield and throwing the soldier off balance. With a pirouette and a slash and another turn and stab, two men fell before him.

Geralt threw on another Quen and dove back into the fray, casting Aard at two soldiers that stood way too close to the railing. Their screams cut off abruptly when they hit the water. From the side, he saw movement and immediately spun, but it was only Ele’yas who threw him a grudging nod. Stinking river water dripped down his long hair and his thigh glistened red from a slash, but he seemed well enough to fight, so Geralt returned the gesture and turned back to the frenzied fighting. He searched for Iorveth’s tall figure amid the battle, but could only barely make him out thanks to the red head-cloth with the raven feathers that drooped from the wildness of their wearer.

Iorveth seemed completely unleashed. Gone was the controlled elf who had barely risen to Geralt’s bait, who had stayed composed even during their fight against a hellish sea monster. Here he was battling his own monsters, his own demons, and it showed. His teeth were clenched shut and bared, the one healthy eye looking this way and that, searching for the next target, the next man to kill.

And yet, even with all that, his movements never lost their grace, his skill never failed, seeming more like a fast, spinning dance than a fight.

Geralt couldn’t stop a slow, grim smile from forming on his face. He wanted the fight over, wanted some peace and quiet and safety for his friends, and Iorveth’s unit, but _gods_ , he could have watched Iorveth fight like this all night and never tired of it.

“Geralt, watch out!” The shout ripped him from his musings which had only taken a second or two, but apparently enough to get him surrounded. With a snarl, he cast a wide circle of Yrden, much larger than he usually did, sapping his strength, but the effect was instantaneous. The soldiers froze in their movement, eyes widening when they realized their situation. With a few efficient thrusts, their lifeless bodies slumped to the ground and Geralt finally looked around to find the origin of the warning voice.

He saw Triss behind a hacking Zoltan, hands raised and magic crackling, but she didn’t step in. “I only have one more in me, so don’t make me use it because you couldn’t keep your eyes off your man!”

“Shut up, Triss!” Geralt yelled back, feeling oddly embarrassed. He shouldn’t have to be reminded like this, but she was right. Time for ogling was later.

Still, he couldn’t fight the need to check once more, to get one more look at Iorveth, and when he did, his blood froze to solid stone in his veins.

Maybe Iorveth had made the same mistake, had noticed Geralt’s stare and wished to return it. Geralt screamed, running forward as Iorveth was toppled from behind. Loredo himself knocked his sword away and leered at the elven leader. His weapon lifted, the setting sun painting the metal orange like flame, and thrust forward.

_Whack._

The tip bit into wood. Iorveth rolled to the side, just in time to evade the hit, but Loredo used the unguarded moment to sink his boot into Iorveth’s side, making the elf cough and sputter, coiling inwards.

“I will teach you what it means to challenge Loredo of Flotsam, scum!”

Geralt cast Aard, but the kinetic force didn’t reach them. Loredo pulled the sword from the deckboards. Iorveth gasped in pain. Geralt cast Quen, but the shield never formed. Loredo stabbed towards Iorveth.

He cast Aard again. Nothing. He was out of magical energy. But it didn’t matter.

Geralt jumped.

* * *

Iorveth noticed three things all happening at the same time. Something large and heavy fell on top of him, a blinding blue light exploded around them, and Loredo took an arrow to the eye.

It took him a second to realize the heavy something on his body was none other than Geralt. The Witcher lay on him, practically caging him with his massive body, his labored breathing right next to Iorveth’s uncovered ear. Slowly, the blue shield around them fizzled out. Loredo’s sword clattered to the ground and he toppled with a thud like a felled tree, making not a single sound.

It was then that Iorveth realized the most important thing. The shield had not been Geralt’s. Geralt must have jumped on top of him to protect Iorveth with his own body, damn the consequences.

He had risked his _life_ for Iorveth.

Iorveth’s breath shuddered from his body.

“Bloede Vatt’ghern” he cursed softly, throwing an arm over Geralt’s back to hold him close for a second, to feel his breath and the powerful thudding of his heart. He was alive. That was all that mattered.

Iorveth knew they should get up, but when he looked around from his position on the ground, he saw the fighting slowly fizzle out. His whole unit had arrived now, and dead soldiers littered the deck. The air was thick with groaning and the stench of loosened bowels and blood. Loredo was dead, slain by none other than Ele’yas, who leaned shakily against a mast and wiped blood from his mouth.

They had taken the barge. The battle was won.

“I cannot believe you!” Above them, the sorceress Triss appeared. “You were out of magic and still you jump in like … like …” She stared at Geralt, who slowly sat up. Iorveth noticed with worry that his eyes were still somewhat swollen and red. He really needed to make him see Kaem.

“Thanks, Triss. You saved us” the Witcher said, standing up and holding out a hand to Iorveth.

“I told you, one spell” she said, seeming mollified. Her gaze rested on him while he let Geralt help him up. “I will see if I can find Dandelion. He came with the last ambush unit.”

Geralt nodded, watching her leave. When he turned to Iorveth, his gaze turned heavy as lead. “You look like hell” he said. “Did you get hurt?”

Iorveth cracked his neck, stretching out his arms. He was sore and the side where he fell and got kicked would bruise badly, but nothing seemed to be broken. “It is nothing.”

The relief was visible on Geralt’s face. Still, he suddenly seemed oddly shy, looking away towards his friends, as if hoping they would rescue him from an uncomfortable conversation. “Good.” He made to leave.

“Geralt” Iorveth said, grabbing his free hand to pull him back. “Why?”

Geralt didn’t answer.

“You had nothing to gain from it” Iorveth continued. His heart still beat fast, and it wasn’t from battle anymore. It stumbled and fluttered and distracted him. He knew that he wanted a specific answer from Geralt, but he couldn’t decide which one. Or he could, but didn’t want to admit it. He felt loose and tied up all at once.

At his words, Geralt ripped himself free. “Call it instinct.”

“Instinct to risk your life for the sake of your captor?”

“You aren’t— I didn’t—”

“Geralt.” Iorveth reached out again, this time to touch the side of his face. He stared at the witcher in wonder. How had this happened? Why did his heart ache for this man, this dh’oine, this witcher, who had meant nothing to him only a week ago? “Thank you. I will try to repay you in kind, one day.”

At this, Geralt seemed to relax. He put his own hand over Iorveth’s, hesitantly folding their fingers together. When Iorveth didn’t pull away, he smiled crookedly. “I take other forms of payment. A nice room on this barge would be a good start.”

“Your own room, huh?” Iorveth teased. “You must have tired of sharing space with me.”

Suddenly, Geralt pulled him in, stubble grazing Iorveth’s own smooth cheek and lips brushing the shell of his ear. “Actually, I just want a fucking bed for once.”

* * *

They only made it to the hallway.

Geralt pressed him against the wooden wall, his fingers holding the sides of Iorveth’s face and put their lips together, gently at first, like fresh snow. Iorveth melted underneath his touch, the relief from a fight won and his people safe easing the tension in his shoulders and back.

Bit by bit, he let Geralt sweep him away, their kisses turning heated, almost feverish. He pushed against Geralt’s chest to slow him down, except that his hands had minds of their own and simply pulled the witcher closer until they stood flush against each other, nose to nose, chest to chest, groin to hot groin.

Iorveth shivered when he felt Geralt’s hardening length at the juncture of his thigh. Anticipation and heat swirled in his belly, and down his cock. He knew he wanted more of this heady feeling, of Geralt, but he wasn’t sure what.

Suddenly, pounding feet sounded from the corridor to their right, echoing and fading to the creaking floorboards above their heads and water splashing against the hull of the ship.

Iorveth finally persuaded his hands to give Geralt a gentle shove back until he could see past him to where the footsteps had come from. Nobody was there.

“Did someone see us?” he asked, alarmed. They were at the very back of the ship, and Iorveth was fairly certain everyone else was above deck, but couldn’t be certain.

Geralt’s yellow eyes glinted in the dark corridor, making Iorveth shudder. Not with fear, like all those times at the beginning, when he felt like the hare in front of the wolf, but with arousal and need. “Watched is more like.”

“And you didn’t think to _tell_ me?”

Geralt raised an eyebrow. “Why, did you want to invite him to the action?”

“Him?” Iorveth asked, already fearing the worst. “Do you by chance know who it was?”

Geralt shrugged, but there was a glint of humor in his eyes. “Long gait for an elf, slightly uneven from a fresh wound, maybe on his thigh … I can guess.”

Iorveth groaned. “Ele’yas.” Of course, his second in command of all people would catch him in such a compromising situation with the witcher. But something still didn’t add up. “Why did he leave? Ele’yas would usually confront me directly. He did so plenty of times in the camp, especially concerning you.”

Geralt sighed, brushing a finger slowly over Iorveth’s swollen lower lip. His mouth opened of its own accord. “My guess” the witcher drawled, “is that he hoped to find you fighting back against me so he could rush to your rescue. But seeing you so amenable to my touch …” His thumb slipped inside Iorveth’s mouth, against his tongue. “He was probably disappointed you chose an outsider over him.”

Iorveth couldn’t think. He knew Geralt had said something important, something that changed his relationship with Ele’yas profoundly, but he couldn’t focus with Geralt’s calloused thumb in his mouth, playing with his tongue. He gripped Geralt’s upper arms, maneuvering them towards Geralt’s newly appointed room and kicked the door shut behind them. He felt hot and itched to be touched by these hands, to rip Geralt’s clothes from that steeled body, sweaty from the fight. He wanted to make the other man quiver with pleasure, just like that night in their cave, when he strangled Geralt and took him apart.

Still, remembering that day, he felt suddenly apprehensive. What if it ended the same way? He wanted Gerald, gods, how he wanted him, but that didn’t stop his body from locking up at half buried memories if they overlapped too much with reality.

“Geralt” he began, voice hitching because Geralt was now stroking his wettened finger down Iorveth’s neck, leaving a trail of spit behind, breath ghosting over the sensitive flesh and raising goosebumps. “I don’t know if I can … how far we can …”

Geralt smiled softly, nuzzling their noses together. “I will do nothing without your consent. You need only give the smallest signal, and I will stop whatever we are doing. We go at your pace, or not at all.”

Iorveth felt a weight around his chest lift away. He grabbed the witcher and pushed him hard against the door, kissing Geralt until their teeth clacked together. Geralt had dictated the pace long enough. Now it was _his_ turn.

* * *

Geralt let himself be manhandled, his shoulder crashing into the wood of the door. Iorveth’s gaze was hungry and wild and Geralt couldn’t tear his eyes away from the sight of his bloodied face, the delicate leaf tattoos climbing up his neck. Iorveth grabbed his wrists, pressing them to both sides of Geralt’s head and leaned in, devouring Geralt’s gasp with his mouth. For a while, they lost themselves in their kisses, breath mingling. Geralt’s cock throbbed with want, but he ignored it, let Iorveth direct the action.

Iorveth pulled on his lip with his teeth, biting softly, healthy eye locked on Geralt’s. Suddenly though, he let go and put a little distance between their bodies. Geralt closed his eyes, taking deep breaths to calm himself. If he wanted to stop here, it was fine. He would be fine. His hand would do a good enough job to tide him over, and then—

“You may take it off.”

“What?” Geralt opened his eyes. Iorveth stood in front of him, arms hanging down, hands twitching.

“The headscarf. Take it off.”

Geralt’s gaze flickered up to Iorveth’s red bandanna which was tied around half his face. He didn’t know what hid beneath, not really, except for the edge of a scar peeking through at the corner of his mouth. Whatever it was though, the memory it entailed must be painful indeed for Iorveth to hide it so thoroughly. “Are you sure?” he asked.

“I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t.” A small smile appeared on the elf’s face. “Trust me, Geralt. I want you to see.”

Geralt nodded, throat thick with the heaviness of the moment. He carefully lifted his hands, searching along the red cloth for the place where it was secured. At the back of Iorveth’s head, he untied the ends, slowly letting the bandanna drop down.

He wasn’t sure what he had expected, but now his heart stuttered.

The edge of the scar he had already seen was but the smallest part of it. It continued along the line of Iorveth’s cheekbone, curled around his temple and ended in the ruin of an empty eye socket. It was not fresh, by any means, but it was clear that it had never healed well, the skin red and angry and raised up like malformed wax.

Geralt stroked the scarred cheek and Iorveth shuddered beneath his touch. “Who did this to you?”

“One of the guards in Drakenborg” Iorveth said, voice carefully devoid of emotion. “Do not worry. I repaid him in kind when I escaped.”

“Good.”

“If you … do not wish to continue, I would understa—”

Geralt interrupted him by kissing the scarred side of his face one spot at a time. Iorveth’s hands clawed into his upper arms, holding himself steady. Finally, Geralt let go. “Stop saying stupid things” he growled.

Iorveth chuckled. In one swift movement, he extricated himself from Geralt’s grip and spun them around until Geralt was pressed flush against the door. “Shall we continue then?”

* * *

Iorveth watched in delight how Geralt’s knees buckled. He stood right behind the witcher, cornering him, and while one hand was busy massaging Geralt’s thick shaft through his trousers, he used his other to pry the witcher’s mouth open and play with his tongue. He pressed down his fingers, let the hot muscle swirl around them, wetting them, pushed deeper until he had Geralt gagging and moaning and dripping saliva down his chin.

His own cock was aching with need, pushing against Geralt’s ass from behind. The witcher whimpered under his touch, and it was maybe the most glorious feeling in the world. He leaned in, pressing his nose into the crook of Geralt’s neck who let his head dip to the side to give him access. With a deep inhale, he took in the scent of blood and sweat and leather and crude oil, and when he opened his mouth to nibble on the sensitive skin, it tasted of brine. They were both by no means clean, with two consecutive battles behind them, but Iorveth found that for once he didn’t mind, to the contrary, cherished it.

He remembered Geralt, promising to take the barge with him. Flirting with him before the Kayran fight. Geralt, throwing himself on top of Iorveth to protect him from Loredo’s wrath.

Geralt hissed, his forehead knocking against the door as he lost his balance. “Fuck, Iorveth …” he panted, and Iorveth found himself back in the room. His left hand had slipped from the witcher’s mouth, holding him fast across the chest, but his right must have slipped into Geralt’s trousers at some point and struck up a rhythm of its own, for the hot flesh underneath his fingers was wet with slick, the tip weeping continuously.

“Too much for the big bad wolf?” Iorveth taunted.

With his mouth preoccupied, Geralt only bucked his hips in answer. His own hands were free and he took advantage of this fact. A few seconds later, his trousers and underthings dropped to the floor, leaving him butt-naked from the waist down. Iorveth teasingly stroked up the underside of Geralt’s feverish shaft and massaged the tip for just a moment, edging Geralt on who groaned into the wood of the door. Instead of finishing him off though, he let the slick hand travel over Geralt’s balls to his hipbone and down his backside until he found the cleft between his cheeks. They hadn’t gone that far yet, but from the way Geralt spread his legs a bit wider to accommodate him, the witcher didn’t mind.

Saliva trickled down Iorveth’s wrist from where Geralt was still forced to keep his mouth open by his hand. He gagged a little when Iorveth pushed his fingers deeper, essentially fucking his mouth while his other hand found Geralt’s entrance. It was a tight fit, with not enough lubrication, but he managed to squeeze in his index finger, rocking back and forth into the heat until he couldn’t push deeper. After a few minutes of this pulsing motion, Geralt’s thighs were quivering, and Iorveth hadn’t even added his second finger yet.

He withdrew the fingers from Geralt’s mouth for a moment. “Shall we move to the bed or can you manage?”

Geralt swallowed, visibly struggling to form a coherent answer. “Will you fuck me?”

Iorveth realized he hadn’t known if he would until just then. “Yes.”

“Bed then”, Geralt rasped, carefully pushing away from the door. Iorveth let him kick off his trousers and shoes, wobble to the bed and fall face-first into the mattress. Iorveth swallowed thickly when he watched the thick, scarred muscle on his legs and the broad back where the shirt had ridden up. “As you were” the witcher drawled. Iorveth stopped staring, grabbed some of the blade oil from Geralt’s belt and got down on his knees above him, quickly finding his hole again. With a lot more oil than strictly necessary for the task, Iorveth pushed back in with two fingers, fucking into Geralt with abandon. The witcher spread his legs wider and wider, the tight furl of muscle relaxing and contracting around Iorveth’s fingers like a vice.

“Gods …” Geralt’s voice hitched when Iorveth found that sweet spot inside of him, marking its location in his head and adding a third finger. Geralt’s moans began filling the air, in time with Iorveth’s movements. Suddenly, his hand shot back and grabbed Iorveth’s wrist. When Iorveth looked up, Geralt had turned half around, his yellow eyes glowing in the gloomy room like candles. “Enough” he growled.

“Greedy, aren’t you” Iorveth said with a cruel smile, freeing his hand and finally opening his own trousers. Geralt’s eyes locked onto his actions and Iorveth remembered that Geralt hadn’t actually seen him naked yet. He hesitated only a moment, then realized he felt no fear, no panic bubbling up in his chest. He wanted this so badly, and he wanted Geralt to see, just like he had wanted to show him his scar, all of the abuse he had suffered in Drakenborg. Those scars ran deep, but in this moment, he felt like maybe he would be fine again, someday.

He pulled out his achingly hard cock and slowly stroked it with the remaining oil on his fingers, giving Geralt a bit of a show. The witcher’s adam apple bobbed while he watched. “You are gorgeous” he said.

“Spread your ass.”

Geralt groaned, turning away and letting his face rest back on the bed, while he reached back with both hands to grab his cheeks and spread them open. Iorveth watched his hole twitching and weeping trails of oil that dripped down his sac into the sheets. Then he put one hand flat on Geralt’s back and used the other to guide himself into the waiting heat. It was a tight fit, even with the preparation, and nearly lost it when he watched how Geralt’s fingers clawed into his own flesh, forming bloodless circles around his fingertips. The witcher was already so close. He wouldn’t last long if he just started ploughing him, so Iorveth pushed in, one inch at a time, until he was fully seated within Geralt. Then he rocked forward, angling his hips just so that he would hit Geralt’s spot every once in a while.

Still rocking, he leaned forward until he could whisper into Geralt’s ear. “I wish you had that leash on right now.”

Geralt clenched around him, gasping into the bedding.

Iorveth bared his teeth, fighting against the pleasure, the heat that built low inside his belly like a wave and threatened to swallow him whole. “I would never let go again.”

Geralt shook, his eyes scrunching shut and fingers digging into the blankets, then he turned boneless and soft and lay sprawled beneath Iorveth who slowly leaned up. “Did you come, Geralt?” he asked. The witcher was still breathing hard, unable to speak, so Iorveth slid a hand underneath his belly and felt the small puddle of cum around a slowly softening cock. He stroked the flesh teasingly, smiling when Geralt hissed and turned sideways a bit to shoot him a glare. “Sensitive?”

“What about you?” Geralt rasped, leaning up on his elbow. “You want to finish where you are and will you let me do something for you?”

Iorveth rocked forward a little within Geralt’s welcoming heat, watching with ecstasy how Geralt shuddered and his cock twitched in lazy interest. “I quite like it here” he admitted.

“Do your worst then” Geralt said, and laid back down on his belly. “But I could do better.”

For a few seconds, Iorveth didn’t move, just watched the rise and fall of Geralt’s broad back. He was still half-clothed, but his shirt had ridden up so much that it left most of Geralt’s skin uncovered. He wanted to fuck Geralt into oblivion, very badly, but he also realized that he trusted the other enough to let him take the lead for the moment. They were headed for Vergen, which meant a good week on this ship, and maybe Geralt would stick around a little after that while he continued his hunt for Letho. Iorveth had no illusions that their paths would separate at some point, but until then there was still time to explore his newfound attraction to the witcher.

So why not start today?

He pulled out, rocking back on his knees to give Geralt some room to move. The witcher turned around, an amused glint in his yellow eyes. “Is that a yes?”

“Do your worst” Iorveth taunted, mimicking Geralt’s words from earlier.

Geralt did.

In a flash, he had Iorveth under him, pulling his trousers and the leather skirt down until Iorveth found himself just as exposed as Geralt was above him. Geralt began unbuckling the rest of his armor as well until they both were stark naked, Iorveth on his back, Geralt kneeling over his pelvis. The witcher leaned down, placing soft butterfly-kisses on Iorveth’s face, his throat, his breastbone, his belly. He wandered down, now and again swiping a wet tongue over the goose-bumped skin. Finally, he reached Iorveth’s cock, which lay hard and weeping in the crook of his hip.

Iorveth felt himself melting beneath Geralt’s expert tongue. The kisses had been good, but now Geralt began kissing the tip of his member, dipping into the slit, sucking out the pre-cum that had gathered there, licking off the oil that coated it like it was honey. Iorveth threw his head back, his breath coming in short gasps. He didn’t remember feeling like this, so utterly undone by a few careful strokes of someone’s tongue. But it wasn’t _someone_ , was it. It was Geralt, the witcher, the white wolf, a monster that was, surprisingly, not a monster at all.

A slick finger breeched his entrance. Iorveth locked up completely, just holding back from kicking Geralt off him. The witcher stilled immediately and sat back. “Sorry. Too fast?”

“Will you …” Iorveth swallowed, unsure what he wanted to know, what answer he needed to hear. “Will you fuck me?”

“No. Not today. Not ever, if you don’t want me. But one finger can do wonders, if you’ll trust me.”

Iorveth huffed a breath and closed his eyes. The truth was, he had only ever once been on the receiving end of such ministrations, and that had been at Drakenborg. He knew it was pleasurable. Why else would Geralt have come untouched? But he had to take that step, let Geralt do something to him that someone else had done in an effort to ruin him.

Finally, he opened his eyes. Geralt had trusted him more than was reasonable. Letting him choke him, lead him around on a leash, protecting him from his own friends, risking his life … Iorveth was scared, he could admit that. But he realized that if he had to face this fear, there was no one he would rather do it with than the witcher.

“Continue” he said softly, meeting Geralt’s eyes so the other knew he had thought it through and wasn’t feeling pressured to agree. Slowly, Geralt nodded and sank back down on Iorveth’s cock.

For a while, he didn’t touch Iorveth’s ass at all. Instead, he milked him with his mouth for all he was worth. His tongue that Iorveth had played with before lapped up all the sides, the back of his throat tickled his tip. He sucked and breathed and fumbled his balls until Iorveth felt like he would explode any second.

Then, the finger returned. It was slick with oil and Iorveth was so relaxed from the ministrations on his cock that Geralt slipped right in. It felt weird for a moment, right until the witcher angled up his finger and Iorveth saw stars.

He felt his back arch from the bedding, toes curling, his mouth opening in a silent _Oh_ that he felt all the way in his spine.

“Feels good, huh?” Geralt mumbled against his shaft, taking him back in again before Iorveth could react. There were so many sensations, all at once, the wet, soft heat around his cock, enveloping him almost to the hilt, that devious finger in his innards, taunting him with its press against Iorveth’s prostate, the scratchy bedding beneath him, damp with their shared sweat, the humid air around them … Iorveth keened as the finger pushed in again, hard enough to rock his entire body upwards. His hands flew towards Geralt’s shoulders, hanging on for dear life as the witcher began fingerfucking him in earnest, all the while deepthroating him like oxygen was optional.

He looked down at the obscene picture that was Geralt, head bobbing, his white hair disheveled and trailing over Iorveth’s stomach, his saliva leaking from the corners of his mouth, his face red …

Iorveth suddenly realized that Geralt was essentially choking himself on his cock, and he completely lost it. He felt his seed shooting down Geralt’s throat, who kept bobbing and sucking until there was nothing left for him to swallow, then let go and began coughing. Iorveth couldn’t even move. His ass clenched around Geralt’s retreating finger as if it had a mind of its own, not wanting to let the digit go.

“You are … insane, Geralt” he finally managed. The witcher fell down in the sheets beside him, looking so well-fucked and dreamy as if _he_ had just come, not Iorveth.

Which, when Iorveth looked down to his cock, he had. “You got off from blowing me?” he asked, feeling both confused and flattered.

Geralt chuckled darkly, throwing an arm over Iorveth’s body and pulling him into his chest, hugging him close. “You should have seen your face.”

Iorveth let himself slink into the embrace, closing his single eye and breathing deeply. Slowly, his mind wandered to Vergen, to Saskia, to a war waiting to be fought. But a hidden corner of his thoughts stayed right here, with Geralt. And he admitted to himself that it felt, in some way, like peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone who made it this far, thank you for reading!  
> This one has been long in the making, so I hope you enjoyed the ride. I can't seem to leave these two grouchy guys alone ...

**Author's Note:**

> Appendix: Translation of Elderspeech
> 
> Vatt’ghern: Witcher  
> Gwynbleidd: White wolf (title of the elves for Geralt)


End file.
